Sad but True
by UZI4U
Summary: Picks up right where season finale left off. Sam's family is broken, his brother is dying, and he has one bullet left... Rating just to be safe.
1. This Shattered Heart

**Sad but True**

**Author: UZI4U**

**Disclaimer: As usual, I don't own any of the Winchester men or plot lines that lead to the season finale. However, everything beyond that horrific crash is of my own creation. Also, I kind of stole the title from a Metallica song :)**

**AN: If you're like me, you jumped up from the couch and screamed at the T.V. when you saw that Mack truck slam into the Impala on Thursday's finale. Also, if you're like me, you feel extremely unsatisfied with this terrible, horrible cliffhanger that will gnaw at the back of your mind all summer long. So I've decided to do the one thing I can and have raced home on Cinco de Mayo to pound out this fic. The action picks up right where Eric Kripke left us dangling and I hope I can do the situation justice.**

Chapter 1: This Shattered Heart

The beach always made Sam smile. He couldn't help it, there was just something rhythmically magical about the way the waves came tumbling in, each tiny droplet of water jostling and foaming at the shore's heels. He loved the way the sand looked when the water receded, how it was dark and rippled and speckled with little bits of rock and shells. He relished in the sound, in the steady, wet slap and his lips quirked into a grin.

He wasn't sure which beach he now overlooked, or why he was wearing heather gray linen pants, but he didn't much care. Jess was there, walking along the water's edge, her flip-flops in one hand and a large conch shell clasped in the other. She turned to him and smiled, her golden mane glittering with the rays of the setting sun, and Sam's heart skipped a beat. She was so beautiful, so perfect, and she was his.

"Come here," he called softly, leaning back on his elbows and tilting his head to the side.

She giggled but shook her head "no" and skipped a few steps further down the beach.

"Jess, come here," he called again, his smile dominating half of his face and revealing straight, white teeth.

But she kept going, the waves washing away the footprints she'd already left.

"She can't hear you, Sammy," the tone was soft and light, pleasantly conversational, and the voice instantly recognized.

"Dean," Sam twisted around to see his older brother standing three or so feet behind him, his hands tucked in the pockets of his leather jacket, his face tranquil. "What are you doing here?"

Dean smiled humorlessly, the expression never touching his eyes, and he turned to face Sam. "We're just waitin' for you, little bro, just waitin' for you."

Sam frowned, brows drawing together beneath his shaggy bangs and darted a glance to Jessica's still retreating form. "Who's we?" he asked distractedly, shading his eyes with one hand to better view his girlfriend.

"Dad and me. Duh."

Sam looked back to his brother, noticed the older man's calm features and the crimson streams that came bubbling from between his lips.

"Dean! Oh, God you're bleeding!" Sam was instantly on his feet, hands reaching for his brother.

"You've gotta save us, man," Dean didn't seem to notice the blood that was now freely coursing down his chin and spreading across his white shirt. If it went much further it would reach the lapels of his jacket.

_Dean will hate that; he won't want his jacket ruined_ was all that Sam could think. _Blood, so, so, so, so much blood. I have to stop the blood…_

But with what? How? It was coming from Dean's mouth, staining his teeth crimson and contrasting sharply with his paled skin.

"Sa-am, oh Sa-am!" Jessica's voice came floating from down the beach and Sam felt his head involuntarily snap in her direction. She was standing on a small rock outcropping and waving furiously for him to join her there. "Sa-am," she called again, this time louder and more insistently.

"Please, Sammy, she's gone," Dean spluttered and Sam could feel the blood droplets splash his face.

Jess frowned at him and seemed to shake her head in disappointment. Then she raised the conch to her lips and a horn-like blast cut through the air mercilessly.

"Sammy…" Sam turned back to his brother, feeling helpless as he watched him choke on his own blood, as he watched the hazel eyes close to slits.

"You're right Dean, she is gone, she can wait a few minutes," Sam swallowed hard, feeling the wetness in his eyes. "But please don't you leave too, please…oh God!" Sam wanted to wail as Dean began to totter beneath his hands.

The conch was still ringing and the wet slap of the waves seemed to intensify with every shuttering breath the elder Winchester managed to force. He was slipping, Sam knew, slipping into a deep sleep from which he would no awaken. He couldn't lose his brother, not now, not ever.

But why was he here, and why was Jess there. Dean had never gone on vacation with the two of them, why were they at the beach again?

"_Please, Sammy, she's gone…"_

Why had he said that, what did he mean…

Jess is dead. Jess has been dead for a year. Jess was killed by the thing that killed Mom. The thing that had possessed Dad. The thing that had…

"DEAN! No! No!"

-O-

Consciousness came slamming into Sam just as the semi had come slamming into the Impala only minutes before. Each and every one of his senses was bombarded at once, each with a different twisted form of reality. It reeked of gasoline and sweat and blood and of their demise if that was at all possible. Jess was still blowing the conch, only now it was louder, more intense, and made Sam's head want to explode.

_No, not Jess_ his foggy brain finally reasoned. _Horn. Car horn_. Somehow it seemed fitting that the horn had become stuck in the collision, it seemed appropriate that the timeless classic should wail in sympathetic agony for the Winchesters.

Sam swallowed thickly, tried to block the monotone howl from his mind and forced his eyes open. It was difficult no doubt. The right one, already swollen and purple thanks to that son of a bitch demon's son, now burned intensely with what he knew to be tiny glass shards. The black cloth headliner swam and blurred before his eyes and for one horrifying moment he thought he might puke all over himself. The involuntary tightening of his stomach alerted him to the fact that he had more than a couple of cracked ribs. Groaning weakly, he rolled his head to the side and his father came sliding into view beside him.

John was leaning heavily against the passenger door, his face and hands dark and slick with blood. He was breathing, Sam could tell, but showed no other signs of life.

"Da…" Sam tried to call but was unable to find his voice. He licked his lips and tasted his own blood.

"Dad," he finally managed to croak, his voice sounding muffled inside the car. There was no response, not so much as a twitch from John, and Sam moved his attention to the other passenger.

He twisted around in his seat, gasping at the fire that went crackling through his ribcage, and saw his brother. His wise-ass older brother was slumped in what looked like a rather comfortable position in the Impala's back seat. His legs were spread apart, one arm thrown casually across the plump vinyl upholstery, his head resting lightly on his own shoulder, fresh blood running down his chin…

"Dean!" Sam choked when he realized the origin of the wet, slapping wave sound effect from his dream.

Once the demon possessing their father had released its hold on Dean, the bleeding had stopped, at least outwardly. Sam hadn't known what it had done to his brother, or how bad the damage was, but he had known they needed to get to a hospital and quickly. Dean had lost a lot of blood, too much blood in Sam's opinion, and now he was bleeding again. Each of the older man's breaths smacked sickly from somewhere in his throat and brought little scarlet bubbles to his lips.

"Dean!" Sam pushed off from the floorboards; his right arm pinned against the seat, and reached for his brother with his left hand.

He tried to anyway. For some reason he couldn't seem to illicit a response from the limb and he grunted in confusion. Another attempt issued the same response as Sam struggled desperately to get to his gasping, wheezing brother. He finally looked down and noticed that his shoulder seemed too high somehow, like he was shrugging, and realization dawned.

"Dammit!" he hissed, sliding back down into his seat. His shoulder was dislocated, it wasn't the first time and he knew he could reset it himself, but there just wasn't time for that. He had to get to Dean.

For once thankful that he'd forgotten to wear his seatbelt, he reached across with his good arm and opened the door. He tumbled out, cussing mercilessly as his battered and bruised body landed with a jolt. But he shook off his pain and scrambled back along the ruined vehicle. Either the grass was extremely tall, or Sam was crawling on his knees, but he didn't care. It didn't matter; nothing mattered except getting to Dean.

When he reached the rear door he wrenched it open with a grunt and then clambered into the back seat. "Dean. Dean, come on. You're alright, come on," his voice sounded strange to his own ears as he circled his right arm around Dean's shoulders. His hand reached the nape of his brother's neck and the skin there felt cold and clammy.

"Dean, please," he whimpered without meaning to, the fatigue and desperation leaking out through the corners of his eyes. "Please, please, please…come on Dean!" Dean hissed laboriously and Sam could feel the spray of blood on his neck.

He had to do something, he had to save his brother, but he was so weak and so helpless right then. He rested his chin on top of Dean's head and the neatly gelled blonde hairs pricked his skin. "Oh God this can't be happening…"

"Oh but it is."

Sam's head whipped around at the sudden voice that pierced the constant drone of the horn. The man that stood at the open door he'd just crawled through looked every bit the normal, small town truck driver that he was. Except for one, tiny detail; the limpid, black hell portals that had taken up residence where his eyes should have been.

Sam knew he should have seen this coming, he knew he should have been prepared. Now, in his hurry to save Dean, he had been careless and they were all going to die. Of course it wasn't like he had even been helping Dean; he'd just been sitting there, crying and waiting to be saved.

The possessed man leaned down so that was level with the two Winchester's in the backseat.

_Do something Sam!_ His mind screamed. He couldn't wait anymore; tears would do no good in this situation. He owed it to Dean, to his big brother who was constantly there for him. _Do something right the hell now Sam!_

This was it, this was the end. After all this time the three _demon_-hunters were to be claimed by a damn eighteen wheeler. Unless…

Sam's hand delved into the front of his Carhartt jacket and withdrew clutching an antique revolver. John would be furious. Sam knew that if he did this, they might never be able to avenge the deaths of his mother and Jessica. They might never achieve the closure they sought…But they would be alive, and sometimes, according to Dean, that was worth it.

He pulled the trigger and the Colt's last bullet cracked through the air, taking the demon and human soul with a flash of lightening. The empty carcass crumpled in the grass and all was silent once more.

Silent save for the Impala's screams, Dean's last struggle for breath, and his baby brother's sobs.

**TBC**

-O-

**So here's the part where all you wonderful readers out there in fanfic land review and let me know what y'all think. I hope you enjoyed and look for more soon if I get positive feedback. Hope everyone had a great Cinco de Mayo!**


	2. Touch and Go

**AN: Wow! I didn't expect to get that many reviews so quickly, but I'm definitely not complaining! Since you're all so wonderful I've managed to get this chap posted a little quicker than I thought I would. So if it seems rushed and crappy, I apologize.**

Chapter 2: Touch and Go

"Now, let's see what we can do about that pretty face o' yours, baby doll."

Sam sighed loudly through his nostrils and fidgeted on the paper-covered exam table. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the matronly nurse's attentiveness; he just wished he didn't have to deal with it at the moment.

Apparently, some Good Samaritan had just happened to have been in East Bumble Missouri driving down Whatever the Hell highway at the exact moment of the crash and had dialed 911. EMTs and fire rescue had arrived mere minutes after the Colt's final round had been dispensed and all three Winchesters were rushed to the nearest hospital. Upon arrival, Dean and John had both been whisked away on gurneys while a near hysterical Sam was left alone in the waiting room until a passing nurse had noticed his condition. Said nurse had taken him to be x-rayed, reset his shoulder, and was now intent on removing every tiny speck of glass from his right temple.

"It's okay, I can do this myself later," he said rather shortly, extending the hand not bound up in sling to prevent Nurse Carter's advance.

She pursed her fuscia lips and arched an eyebrow as if to say _oh really?_ "Boy, you've done nothing but whine this whole time," she scolded. "Now quit acting like a man and let me help you!"

Sam scraped his top lip between his teeth out of nervous habit and edged further away from the fifty-something nurse. "Look, I appreciate it and all, but I just want to check on my brother…and my dad," he nearly pleaded, mentioning his father as an afterthought. Since arriving at the hospital, his only concern had been for Dean. He recalled the intercom announcing the arrival of a triage patient and he shuddered.

Nurse Carter's frown softened as she read the distress on the young man's face. "Dr. Schneider is one of the best in the state, honey. He'll let you know when your brother is out of surgery," she gave his knee a reassuring little squeeze. "And I think your daddy's already been put in a room. Let's finish up here and you can go see him, okay?"

Sam nodded and swallowed the lump that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his throat.

Nurse Carter opened up one of the cabinets that lined the walls and pulled out a pair of latex gloves and a glistening set of tweezers. "This won't hurt a bit," she lied warmly, snapping on the gloves and raising the tweezers.

Sam didn't resist as she took a firm hold on his chin and tilted his head to the side.

"_This won't hurt." Yeah right. _It hurt alright, it hurt like hell. He could feel his skin peel away from each jagged shard and his nostrils flared, breathing in the heavy scent of fresh latex. _Damn it woman! _ He squeezed his eyes shut tightly against the needles of pain.

"Oh no. Open those peepers up, honey. I can't get it all out if your face is all squinched up," Nurse Carter ordered, tightening her fingers around his jaw.

"Sorry," he muttered, suddenly feeling like a complete girl. Not too far down the hall Dean lay unconscious and exposed on an operating table as doctors rushed to save his life, and here he was being a wuss over some minor flesh wounds.

The nurse finished up quickly, dabbed the area with some alcohol (which burned like a mother) and announced Sam ready for action.

"Thanks," he said with rushed sincerity and hopped off the table. Back on his feet, he now towered above Nurse Carter and she looked up to him and smiled.

"No trouble, baby doll. You just be sure to get some rest and take better care of yourself," she ordered good naturedly and patted his sling-clad arm.

"Oh I sure will, ma'am," he lied with a ghost of a sad smile.

-O-

It was a small hospital and all of the recovery rooms were located on the second floor, the third floor being reserved for extended stay patients. Sam found John's room on the third try and hovered outside the door as a nurse finished setting up the IV bag.

"Try and rest some, Mr. Franklin," Sam heard her call John by the alias that was printed on all of their fake insurance cards and watched as his father completely ignored the young woman. She gathered her clipboard and gave John one last nervous glance before hustling out the door, completely missing Sam.

The youngest Winchester waited a bit longer, trying to compile all of his thoughts into something to say to his father, but gave up in the end because he realized it was impossible. Silently, he slipped inside and pushed the door to behind him.

John remained motionless, sitting upright in the metal-framed bed, arms crossed and staring intently at a spot on the wall. In all of the twenty two years of his life, Sam couldn't recall ever seeing his father so detached or so vulnerable. Perhaps it was the hospital gown, or maybe the tube dripping fluids into his arm, or the thick bandages wrapped around his right shin. Whatever it was it didn't matter because the wounded man before him was John Winchester. And John Winchester was never vulnerable.

"Hey, Dad. How's your leg?" was all that Sam could seem to say as he moved closer to the bed.

John's face twitched slightly. "Fine," he stated coldly.

Sam readjusted his sling nervously and licked his lips. "You know, the doctor said…"

"I don't give a damn what the doctor said," John's eyes tore over to his youngest son and Sam saw that they were heavy with rage and pure, bitter contempt for the being before him. "Did you use the last bullet, Sammy?" An icy challenge dripped from his words, daring the younger man to say that he had defied orders yet again.

Sam wanted to scream, he wanted to throw things and punch his father right in the damn face for being such an uncaring, selfish bastard. His only thoughts should have been of his sons' safety. He should have asked if Dean was okay, if he was alive even, but no. All he could think of was that stupid, fucking _bullet_.

"Yes, Dad. I used the last bullet," Sam met John's gaze levelly. "I put it right between that bastard's eyes. I did what I had to to save our family."

"Family?" John pulled himself up straighter against the bed's railing. "If you gave a damn about this _family_ you would have shot me like I told you to!"

"Listen to yourself, Dad!" Sam cried without realizing that he was shouting. "You're willing to throw it all away for the sake of revenge!"

"Aren't you?" John's tone was eerily soft, contrasting sharply with that of his son.

Sam worked his mouth silently, searching for a way to deny the truth.

"You said so yourself, Sam, you and I are a lot alike," John continued. "But you've been listening to your brother, and he's not like us. He's never felt the kind of loss that we have."

"Dean's the only one who's kept both our sorry asses alive this whole time, he's…"

"Dean is weak!" John hissed and then suddenly found himself staring into a younger reflection of his own eyes.

"Don't you _dare_ call my brother weak!" Sam shoved his nose mere inches from his father's and took a rough hold on the older man's collar. "Dean worships the ground you fucking walk on! He loves you!" Sam began to tremble at his own words. "I was ready to leave you, to keep hunting, but Dean insisted we find you. He saved you, he saved us both you son of a…"

"What are you gonna do, hit me Sammy?" A dare glittered in his eyes, a taunt that he expected to go unanswered.

But Sam was spared the guilt of pummeling his old man as the door opened and one of the hospital's three doctors entered with a cheery "hello". Sam immediately released his father, albeit roughly, and backed away. He stood there shaking, holding his damaged face with his good hand and trying to keep the tears at bay.

"Am I interrupting something?" the gray-haired, bespectacled doctor asked with a nervous glance between the two men.

"No, no you're not," Sam said with a cracked voice, turning his back to John.

The doctor looked disbelieving, but shrugged and continued. "Mr. Franklin, you're brother is out of surgery and seems to be resting comfortably. Would you like to see him?"

**TBC**


	3. Lucky

**AN: My advanced apologies for not knowing anything about the medical profession. I hope Dean's injuries sound realistic, but if not, please just bear with me.**

Chapter 3: Lucky

"So the operation went well then, Dr. Schneider?" Sam asked anxiously as he tried to keep from sprinting down the hall to Dean's room. His first inclination had been to smack the doctor upside the head for asking such a dumbass question like "_Would you like to see your brother?" _But he'd reminded himself that he was supposed to be the level-headed, polite Winchester and had simply nodded at the physician breathlessly, leaving John to stew in his own vengeful misery.

Dr. Schneider pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose and gave a quirky, thoughtful sort of frown. "Well, it's strange…"

In Sam's line of work, he had come to know that strange was never a good thing.

"…Your brother's injuries were like none I've ever seen before."

"How so?" Sam asked; mirroring the doctor's wrinkled brow.

Dr. Schneider came to a halt at the door to room 208 and turned to face Sam. "You see, when Dean first arrived, we immediately noticed that he was bleeding pretty profusely from the mouth, leading me to correctly believe that he had some fairly severe internal hemorrhaging."

Sam nodded in understanding and shifted his weight uneasily.

"As expected, Dean had heavy bruising and broken vessels on his pancreas and spleen," the doctor continued. "All normal maladies from a car crash. However, the accident doesn't provide an explanation for these," he paused to pull an expanded photo from the file folder he'd been carrying and held it up for Sam's inspection.

Sam felt his stomach lurch when he realized that the thick red bands in the picture were gashes across his brother's chest and abdomen and that they had been created by their possessed father.

"These lacerations are _deep_," Dr. Schneider put heavy emphasis on the word. "I had to stitch the muscle wall together and cauterize a lot of vessels. Do you know anything about these?" he asked pointedly, waving the glossy print in the air.

_Oh shit_ Sam thought. _Here's the part where they haul us off with IVs and handcuffs_.

"I, uh," Sam gave a perplexed non-smile and shrugged his good shoulder. "I have no idea. Maybe there was some glass…from the window maybe? I don't know." He knew it sounded lame, and Dr. Schneider seemed to think so too.

Thankfully, however, the physician pushed open the room door and waved for Sam to enter. "Perhaps it'll come to you later," he said politely.

"Oh yeah, I'm sure it will," Sam said quickly, eager to escape the doctor's scrutiny and reach Dean's side. He gave Dr. Schneider one last nod of thanks and stepped across the threshold of recovery room 208.

Sam wasn't quite sure what he'd expected. It was like he thought Celine Dion should have been there to belt out some uplifting number and a banner that proclaimed _Ding-Dong Dean's Alive! _should have unfurled from the ceiling. There should have been confetti and streamers and noisemakers, and cake, lots of cake, but there wasn't. There was only Dean.

There he was with his chiseled jaw, his sharp, ever so slightly crooked nose, and those pouting lips of his. He looked far too pale, leaning back against the pillows limp as a rag doll, barely blonde hair un-gelled and mashed against his head. But he looked up as Sam entered and his hazel eyes, although heavily ringed in black, glittered with a fire that could only be described as Dean-esque.

"Hey…s'up, bitch?" Dean called hoarsely with an attempt at his signature cocky grin.

Sam felt his face tighten oddly, and suddenly realized that for the first time in days he was actually smiling. "Dude," Sam shook his head in amused disbelief and took a seat in the hard plastic chair that had been placed beside his brother's bed. "You are such a jerk."

"Ah, but what would you do without me?" Dean's light tone failed to cover up the sadness that flashed across his face. "How's Dad?" he asked soberly, his smile slipping.

Sam leaned back in the chair and sighed. It felt as if the world had been lifted from his shoulders just seeing Dean alive and mostly normal, the last thing he wanted to discuss was John. "He's an asshole, as usual," he said as lightly as possible.

"But he's…I mean his leg…he's gonna be okay, right?" Dean's brows knitted together as he tried to lean forward on his bed. "Sam?"

"He's fine, Dean," Sam assured soothingly. "The doctors removed the slug from his tibia and put some Neosporin on his cuts. He'll be grumpy as new in no time," he quirked a tiny smile for Dean's benefit.

"Slug? Aw crap!" Dean grimaced and flopped his head back onto the elevated pillow. "The cops are gonna be all over our asses."

"I know, I know…"

"Sam, all gun shot wounds that come through the ER are reported to the police _immediately_." Dean's eyes became wide. "Dude, we've gotta get out of here. We've gotta get out of here yesterday."

Sam gave a little silencing wave with his good hand and shook his head. "_You_ aren't going anywhere, at least not for a couple of days." He squared his jaw in response to Dean's groans of protest. "I'm serious, you…you got pretty messed up back there, Dean. I'm not letting you get up until we're sure those stitches will hold."

Dean's sour expression suddenly turned to one of amusement. "Thanks, _Dad_, but maybe you should take care of yourself first," he pointed at Sam's sling.

Sam rubbed the offensive cloth distractedly and ducked his head. "Yeah, well, I guess we were just lucky last night."

Dean smiled tiredly. "Naw, Sammy, luck had nothing to do with it."

Sam lifted his eyes to meet his brother's gaze and realized that in his own, un-mushy, round-about way, Dean was thanking him. Sam returned the smile, his heart warm. "Well, Dad always said…"

"…Make every shot count," they finished in unison and shared a soft chuckle.

"Get some sleep, Dean," Sam patted his brother's shoulder, noticing just how fatigued the older man looked. "I'll see you in the morning."

Dean flashed a half-hearted thumbs up and settled back into a more comfortable position, his eyes closing almost immediately.

Sam shot one more look over his shoulder at his dozing brother before slipping out of the room. He didn't care what Dean said, he knew without a doubt that tonight he was the luckiest guy on earth; he had his brother back.

-O-

The late afternoon shadows spanned across the tiled floor, stretched, warped, and eventually yielded to fluorescent bulbs as night claimed the evening sky. Time lapsed and John Winchester sat, alone and empty on his hospital bed; his leg throbbing and the painkillers untouched on the nightstand. He refused to take the pills; why mask physical pain when the emotional pain was so much worse?

In his mind, he replayed his conversation with Sam over and over again. Each time it was slightly different; he hugged his son, told him he was sorry, and told him it was okay that he'd used the bullet, it didn't matter anyway. He told him that Dean was anything but weak, that he was the strongest man he knew, and that he was proud of both of them.

But all the imagining in the world would do no good now. He'd said what he'd said and couldn't take it back. He'd done what he had to in order to bind his boys closer together. They had to be a united front, a wall of fraternity that was the ultimate threat to all that went _bump_ in the night. And he needed them to hate him, their own father. He needed them to leave him behind so that he could finish this fight on his own. John was more than willing to jump into the fire himself, but he'd be damned if his boys would succumb to an untimely fate on his account.

The night stretched on, nurses came and went, but Sam never returned. He hadn't expected him to, but oh how he wished that he would. He kept hoping he might poke his shaggy head back through the doorway…but for what? Small talk? Sam was too much like his father to forgive and forget so easily.

John had succeeded. He'd succeeded in breaking his own heart when his youngest son walked through the door for the last time.

**TBC **

**See, John's not a total monster after all; I like his character too much to write him as one. Up until this point there hasn't been much action, okay none really, but I promise that things will pick up in chapters to come. Thx to everyone who reviewed and please keep the feedback comin'!**


	4. Housekeeping

**AN: Oh-my-God! My computer has been on the fritz for a week and a half. I've been dying to update and now, finally, I can bring you a new chapter. I know that I promised action, and I promise that I will get to it, it's just that the finale left me with so many loose ends, ya know? Okay, I'll shut up now. Please enjoy.**

Chapter 4: Housekeeping

The instant Sam set foot inside the run-down motel room he'd rented for the night; he hastily removed the sling and dropped it unceremoniously to the turquoise carpet. He wriggled his fingers and flexed his arm back and forth from the elbow down, relishing in the freedom of movement. His shoulder was still tender enough to illicit a breathless gasp, but he wasn't afforded the luxury of two weeks of rest and relaxation to fully recover. He would have to make do with half a dozen Advil and a beer before bedtime as was Winchester tradition with such injuries.

With a heavy sigh, he began the laborious task of undressing and slipped off his button-up flannel shirt. The t-shirt, however, proved to be much more difficult and after five minutes worth of panting and struggling to remove the offensive article without lifting his left arm, he gave up. Kicking off his sneakers and jeans, he flopped back limply on the twin bed and winced at the jar the movement sent through his inflamed ribs.

"Oh this sucks big ones," he grumbled, half expecting to hear Dean's cocky retort of "You would know all about that, huh Sammy?"

But it didn't come, and Sam heaved another grandiose sigh at the prospect of spending the entire night alone and miserable. It wasn't the alone part that bothered him so much; it was his reason for being alone. Dean wasn't out on the town, trying to earn an invite home to some girl's apartment, he was in the hospital recovering from near fatal wounds. It reminded him harshly of the last time Dean had been in the ER, and he shivered at the memory. How much heartache could one family endure?

He left his own question unanswered and rolled over on top of the green spread, not even bothering to unmake the bed. He was so tired he didn't really care what kind of grime and biological fluid he was pressing his face into, he just wanted sleep. And it came, claiming him swiftly so as to prepare him for the arduous day ahead…

-O-

_9:53 a.m_.

"…Now this one here, this is a real beauty, son."

Sam took a miniscule sip of his coffee and eyed Fred of _Freddy's Used Car Extravaganza_ wearily, failing to see anything beauteous about the yellow Dodge Neon before him. He hated car shopping, perhaps because he'd been spared the activity for his entire life, but he now hated it more than ever. As much as he pretended not to care about the Impala, he had come to respect and even appreciate his brother's classic steel beauty. It felt like betraying her, looking at other forms of transportation, but he knew that she was in no shape to be driven.

"I was thinking of something bigger, a full sized sedan maybe," Sam said vacantly, beginning to wend his way between the rows of glistening hoods and bumpers.

Fred, a rather large, balding man, snapped his fingers and grinned broadly at Sam. "Well then I've got just the thing!"

Sam rolled his eyes at the man's back; he'd said that about the Civic, the Scion, the S10, the Caravan (Sam shuddered at the thought), and every other car on the lot.

"Here we go," Fred waved a tweed-covered arm at a gold Crown Victoria and gave a little wink. "This, my boy, is the car for you."

Sam peered into the window, frowning at his own reflection in the glass and envisioning his brother behind the wheel of the grandma car; it wasn't a pretty picture. But then he had to remind himself that there was plenty of room for three six foot plus men in the spacious interior and he suspected that the trunk was huge.

"Well…" Sam straightened and faced Fred, unhappily planning on telling the man that he would buy the car, when he spotted it.

Just over Fred's shoulder and parked near the back of the lot was a truck. It was a Chevy truck to be exact; a black four door 2500 set up on knobby thirty-two inch tires. Sam did not consider himself a truck man, but he fully appreciated the chrome brush-guard and tubular step rails. Then his eyes found the best part; the toolbox. Nestled directly behind the cab was a huge, monster of a Husky brand chrome plated toolbox.

"Um, Fred, that truck over there…does the toolbox have a lock on it?" he asked, head cocked like a quizzical puppy.

Fred spun to look in the direction of the truck, slightly puzzled that the Crown Vic wasn't to his customer's liking. But he quickly pasted the salesman smile back on when he realized that he might be facing a sale. "Why, of course it does! We have only the best here at _Freddy's_. That truck's a two-thousand; got four wheel drive and off road struts and suspension…"

"I'll take it," Sam said mildly, sipping at his coffee.

"Wonderful!" Fred beamed. "Come right this way and we'll take care of the paperwork. What did you say your name was, son?"

"Johnson, Brian Johnson."

-O-

11:14 a.m.

"A car you said?"

Sam placed his good hand on the counter before him and tried to keep the impatience from his voice when he addressed the owner of the self storage facility. "Yes, a car. I just need a place to keep it for a little while until I can have it repaired," Sam tried to employ his best wide-eyed puppy dog look, but it seemed totally lost on the arthritic, suspender clad man.

"Well, I guess I could give ya one 'o the big spaces," he wheezed, voice lost after years of smoking. "But it'll cost ya."

Sam was almost relieved to hear that the old crone could be _bribed_ into holding the Impala. He'd been all over town and had discovered this to be the only storage place. He knew that he couldn't leave the car to rust in the impound lot nor could he wait around for weeks while it was painstakingly pieced back together.

He pulled his battered leather wallet out and handed the man the two-thousand bucks he'd managed to scam from various ATM machines that morning. "Here, that oughta cover at least six months."

The man snatched up the bills as though afraid Sam might retract his offer and gave a yellowed grin. "Put her in shed fourteen." He slid a key across the counter at Sam and turned to stow the money in the register.

Sam left the office and followed the wrecker down the row of concrete bunkers to number fourteen. He unlocked and raised the metal, roll-up door and watched as the Impala was unceremoniously lowered off the truck.

He winced as the chrome grill shifted in its frame. The car wasn't demolished, but it had sustained significant body damage. Technically, it was totaled, but over the years it had become a member of the family. It had been John's car first and both boys had spent many a long night asleep in the wide backseat. It was the first vehicle Sam had ever driven, Dean too for that matter, and had been handed down to the eldest only a couple of years ago.

The two wrecker drivers finished unhooking the chains and gladly accepted Sam's payment before rumbling off to their next job. Once they were gone, Sam stepped forward slowly and placed a hand on the black hood. It was grimy, scuffed, and in need of a good wax. One day…maybe.

"Sorry girl," he sighed, moving down the ruined passenger side to the rear of the car. He noticed that the two devil's traps he had scrawled on the trunk lid still remained, but knew that the symbols would not be able keep out the cops that had picked up the car. Praying for police stupidity, he popped the empty trunk and felt along the edge for the hidden release. His fingers found it knowingly and he unlatched the secret compartment to find…everything.

"Oh thank God!" he breathed, elated to have found their hunting gear. It was all there: revolvers, automatics, shot-guns, hatchet, cross-bow, holy water, bible, salt, ammo, tasers, rope, knives, machetes, and more knives. He even spotted their laundry bags. Sam loaded every last weapon and supply they owned, cleaning out the trunk entirely, and carefully hefted the bags out one at a time with his good arm to the truck.

He was ready to leave, hand on the door, when he was suddenly reminded of the one thing he'd left in the car: the Colt. If the cops hadn't found the stash in the trunk, then it was likely they hadn't searched the interior, which was flat out stupid considering there had been two gun-shot victims at the crash site.

Sam hustled around the car and opened the rear driver's side door. He hunkered down on his knees and spotted a familiar glint beneath the front seat. Reaching awkwardly with his right arm, he pulled out the .45.

It was a beautiful gun; truly an antique cast by Samuel Colt himself. Sam rotated it in his hands, admiring the glossy, engraved steel. He figured he needed to hold onto the gun, even though it was now useless. They had used all of the remaining bullets. First on the vampire, then the demon in the alley (the one that had given Sam the glorious purple shiner on his right eye), then one for John's leg, and finally the truck driver. Every one of the Colt's mystic rounds was gone, lost to them forever…

Realization hit Sam like a cold slap in the face and he caught his breath as he continued staring at the gun. He was wrong…they weren't lost forever…not all of them. The shot to John's leg hadn't been a through and through, the doctors had had one hell of a time removing the slug from the bone. They wouldn't have discarded the round, no; in fact it was very valuable. As Dean had pointed out, all GSWs were reported, which meant all bullets were taken as evidence, which meant…

Sam smiled humorlessly; he had one more stop to make.

**TBC**


	5. Escape Plans

**AN: I know, I know, I hated putting the Impala in storage. That car is AMAZING: big block V8 SS, downward facing dual exhaust…let's just say I drool over it every week. But realistically, there's no way it could possibly be road-worthy after suffering the frame damage caused by that semi. Don't worry, it will make an explosive return at some point, I couldn't just write it out of the story. Anyway, the show must go on… **

Chapter 5: Escape Plans

After careful consideration, Dean had decided that the hospital's biggest downfall was definitely the lack of cable television. Never mind the food, although that green jell-o had quite a kick to it, and forget about the fact that the sheets felt like sandpaper; it was the limited channel selection that encouraged a rapid recovery.

He aimed the remote at the tiny, wall-mounted set and fired, flipping from _The Young and the Restless _to _Days of Our Lives _and groaned inwardly. Soaps were the last things he wanted to watch considering he felt like absolute shit. He hurt everywhere; his muscles having been strained to the limit, and apparently his head had been bumped around during the crash because he had a monster head-ache. Not to mention the sixty odd staples that held his midsection together. Not only did the flesh throb where the surgical metal pierced and sealed the wound, his insides were raw and frightfully sore as well. It felt as if he'd swallowed an entire box of razor blades and chased it with a shot of Drain-o. He'd tried so hard to look tough and non-chalant the day before when he'd talked to Sam, but it had taken every last scrap of self-control not to flinch with each breath.

Dean sighed, immediately regretting the action and the ripples of pain it sent through his core. Good God, if he couldn't even breathe deeply, how the hell was he going to _get up_ and walk down the hall to the bathroom? He didn't know the answer to that question, but he _did _know that he'd insisted the nurses take out the catheter, an experience he never, ever wanted to relive, and was now faced with no other option.

Gritting his teeth and taking a deep breath, Dean lurched forward into a sitting position, the pain nearly bringing up the lunch he'd barely managed to choke down earlier. He sat hunched over in his bed, breathing shallowly and waiting for his severed abdominal muscles to stop seizuring. At last, the stabbing sensations dulled to a throb and he raised his head, feeling the perspiration slide down his face.

"Don't do that again," he scolded himself, peeling the rough sheets down. Slowly and gingerly he untangled his feet from the fabric and rotated on the bed to swing his legs over the side. He found that if he moved his torso as a unit without twisting in the slightest, he could turn without crying out in pain.

Dean sat there for a moment, sweaty palms gripping the mattress as he stared down at his toes. Not for the first time he asked himself if it was worth it; rushing through the healing process. In all his twenty seven years he'd never been able to rest up for a week or two, sipping chicken soup and catching up on primetime re-runs every time he caught the sniffles. The job had always beckoned; classic rock and candy bars serving as salve for the Winchesters' wounds.

But this was different, this was heavy stuff. Dean didn't have a scratchy throat or a couple of scrapes and bruises; he had just barely evaded death, and not for the first time in his life. He also suspected it wouldn't be the last time, and with that thought, he lowered his bare feet to the tile floor without so much as a twitch.

-O-

Sam navigated the Silverado through the hospital's visitor lot and slid into a one-dinger at the end of the row. He killed the engine and the thrum of the dual tailpipes echoed into oblivion, leaving the youngest Winchester alone with his thoughts.

He hated what he was about to do, but it had to be done. No way were Dean and John road-ready, but Sam couldn't wait around for the alternative. It wouldn't be long before local authorities started nosing around the hospital, searching for answers as to why one of the town's resident truckers had ended up dead on the side of the road with a bullet hole between his eyes. Sam guessed the cops wouldn't buy his story that old Lester had been possessed by an other- worldly demon and had run them off the road because they had a "magic gun".

As if on cue, the black and white cruiser and unmarked Crown Vic came prowling through the lot in Sam's rearview and wound their way up to the entrance of the building.

"Oh shit."

-O-

Dean found it to be quite difficult to roll his IV stand with one arm and hold the back of his gown closed with the other as he eased down the hall. The task seemed to be pulling at his staples, so he eventually gave up and released his grasp on the gown, affording any passing hospital staff the view of a lifetime. He didn't care really, he figured all women admired his ass and besides, he was only feet away from his destination. He was almost there; he could see the little male stick figure on the door of the bathroom…

_Ding! _The elevator doors burst open at the end of the hall to emit a rather frazzled looking Sam.

"Dean!" Sam huffed, jogging up to his brother with a bundle clutched tightly to his chest.

Dean halted and slumped up against the wall for support, finding the scene hilarious despite the sharp pangs radiating through his body. "Whoa there, Sport. Where's the fire?" he asked with a weak grin as he waited for Sam to catch his breath.

"Cops…downstairs…we…" Sam panted, holding a hand to his heart.

"Well Jesus, Sam! Why didn't you say so?" Dean struggled to twist his pale face into a scowl.

Sam gave the barest hint of a grin, actually delighted to see his brother react in typical fashion, before wetting his lips nervously. He shoved the bundle at Dean and yanked open the bathroom door. "Here, come on," he urged waving his hand dramatically.

Dean accepted the bundle, recognizing it as his favorite pair of jeans and a t-shirt wrapped around his scuffed biker boots. He hurried into the bathroom as best as he could, relieved to find it empty, and felt the air stir as the door swung shut behind them.

"How much time do we have?" Dean asked, carefully removing the IV needle from the back of his hand and handing it to Sam.

Sam wrinkled his nose as he chucked the needle and wad of attached tape into the trash beside the sink. "Maybe five or ten minutes. They pulled in right behind me; a patrol and a detective."

Dean nodded wordlessly and stepped into his jeans, focusing all of his attention on keeping his balance. He zipped the fly and shrugged out of his gown, reaching for the faded green shirt. "We've gotta get Dad," he said pointedly, pulling the collar over his head with a grimace.

Sam sighed, trying not to focus on the double row of silver staples running across his brother's stomach. "We will," he assured, but Dean raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"I'm serious, Sam," Dean tugged on his left boot. "I can tell you two had some hell of an argument," he frowned when Sam crinkled up his face in a look that said he knew he'd been caught. "…But I'm not skipping out on him," Dean stomped into his other boot for emphasis.

"I never suggested you should skip out on him, okay?" Sam raised his hands defensively. "I'll take care of it while you slip out of here."

Sam growled low in his throat when Dean started to protest. "Damn it, Dean! You're in no shape to help." He scowled darkly as he lifted his shirttail and pulled a gun from the waistband of his jeans. "Here," he extended Dean's weapon of choice; the Smith & Wesson .45 with the mother of pearl grip and received a small smile.

"What about you?" Dean slipped his favorite gun into his own waist band and folded his arms with some difficulty.

Sam revealed the Glock 9mm tucked away against the small of his back with a smug look. "I can take care of myself, thank you."

There was an awkward pause in which both young men recognized the falsity of the statement, and then they shared a quiet look.

"Guess it's back to the grind, huh?" Dean said, cracking his fingers.

"I'll meet you in the parking lot," Sam assured, rubbing his tender shoulder unconsciously. "And don't…"

"…You do anything stupid, kiddo," Dean finished with a smile. "I'll be damned if we're gonna die in a hospital without cable."

**TBC**


	6. Somthing About His Eyes

Chapter 6: Something About His Eyes…

Ordinarily, one would not consider a desk receptionist's job as all that exciting. Sure, it was a position crucial to any well-run business, but there weren't all too many thrilling tales of adventure and romance that focused on taking calls and pushing papers. Carolyn, however, begged to differ. She was going on four years now behind the hospital's front desk, and she wouldn't have traded the job for anything in the world.

Carolyn had always been fascinated by the medical practice, but an intense fear of needles had kept her from medical school. Well, fear of needles and academics that is. But that being beside the point, Carolyn had flourished as the head receptionist. She was a bit of a busy-body and loved being in the know when it came to the entire town's medical history. Not to mention the excitement of watching the ER all day; witnessing every life or death case that came bursting through the glass doors. It was better than watching _General_ _Hospital_.

This day had been no different from any other. There had been an infant with scarlet fever, a teenager who'd earned a broken elbow from a skateboard accident, an elderly gentleman with chest pains, and two expectant mothers that had gone into labor. Everything was run of the mill; check the sign in sheet, give out insurance paperwork, and boss around the interns.

Carolyn's morning progressed in a typical and orderly fashion into the afternoon. One 'o clock announced the arrival of her lunch break and she pushed herself up from the rolling chair, knees popping in protest. She had asked Leslie to please cover the desk for her and was just gathering up her purse when he came in.

He was in his late thirties, Carolyn guessed, about 5'10", medium build and dressed in a dark suit and tie. A second man followed him, a patrol officer all gussied up in his police blues, and she figured the first man must be an escorted detective.

"Ma'am," the suit called, crossing the ER in strides that seemed too long considering his height. "A word please." His tone was loud and commanding, rooting Carolyn in place.

"Oh…sure," she set her purse down and smoothed the front of her khaki skirt. "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

The suit was standing at the counter now, hands limp at his sides. He flashed Carolyn a smile, or at least that's what she assumed, because the man's expression was anything but warm and friendly. Something about his face sent little tremors down her spine, she couldn't put her finger on it, but something seemed off. Maybe it was because the patrol was standing there like a zombie, his rigid face looming over the detective's shoulder like some giant parrot.

One of the detective's hands seemed to snap from its trance and reached inside the wool jacket to emerge with a Polaroid clenched between thumb and forefinger. "We're looking for this man," his words held weight, like his entire mission in life was focused on the subject of the photo. Dark eyes commanded Carolyn to look and she forced the shakiness from her hands as she grasped the corner of the snapshot.

The man in the picture was young, probably in his early twenties and more than handsome with a long, masculine jaw, rounded nose, and deep-set brown eyes. He wore his hair a little on the long side and purposefully shaggy, but it suited him. His jeans, dark rugby shirt and canvas jacket were well-weathered and stained. One lean-fingered hand rested on what appeared to be the shoulder of someone not captured in the photo and his chocolate eyes glittered with an emotion Carolyn couldn't guess. Fear? Bravado? Anticipation? She wasn't sure.

"Have you seen him?" the detective's voice was like cold rain falling and it snapped Carolyn from her analysis.

"Yes," she said slowly, meeting the man's gaze. "He came in yesterday with his father and brother. It was a car crash…"

"Thank you, Carolyn," he cut her short and withdrew the Polaroid.

Carolyn glanced at his empty face once more, feeling yet again that there was something vitally wrong with this man. Something about his eyes…

She watched as he and the patrol officer turned and headed for the elevator, recalling that she hadn't told him her name.

-O-

Dean watched as Sam poked his head through the bathroom door first, not really minding that the younger man was taking the lead role. He didn't exactly feel like being the fearless older brother at the moment. Sam made the "okay" signal behind his back and pushed out into the hallway, leaving Dean to catch the door on his way out.

"Are you sure you're up to this?" Sam chewed his lip worriedly as he continued to scan the hall. He flicked a glance to Dean's still pale face. "I can try and buy us some more time…"

"I'm fine, Sam," Dean answered too quickly, checking for the fifteenth time that his gun remained secure in his waistband. "You just worry about getting Dad outta here alive." He squared his shoulders as best he could without wincing and managed to look like he was only half-way to Death's door. "I'm serious, dude!" he hissed at Sam's dubious raised brows and waved the younger man in the opposite direction.

"I'll meet you outside, then," Sam's words held more of a fearful question than an instruction.

"Yes you will," Dean said with finality and turned towards the elevator. He felt Sam's eyes linger on his back for several seconds, then registered the muted scuffs of the other man's retreating sneakers. "Yes you will," Dean whispered to himself as he made his way laboriously down the hall.

Sam had made it seem so easy, jogging merrily from the elevator, okay, maybe not so merrily, but Dean had not guessed that his destination was so far from the bathroom. When he was halfway there, he began to wish he'd taken that extra Tylenol, perhaps then he wouldn't be shuffling along like Quasimodo.

A nurse emerged from a side hall and he immediately jerked upright. The staples grabbed at his stomach and it was all he could do to force a tight-lipped smile as she passed. As soon as she was out of sight, he doubled over, nearly going to his knees, and staggered the rest of the way to the elevator. His face felt hot and flushed as he reached out and pressed the "down" arrow and little trickles of sweat wove their way down his back.

"Damn," he pressed his forehead against the cool wall as he listened to the car come clattering up the shaft, the sounds muffled by the pounding of blood in his ears. He was starting to think that maybe he should have left the IV in place.

With a soft _ding _the doors slid open and Dean stumbled into the empty car, his finger barely grazing the "lobby" button as he fell against the side railing. He swallowed thickly as the doors closed, his head throbbing.

_Distraction, that's what I need_ he thought to himself, and suddenly found that he was whistling _Smoke on the Water_ as loud as he possibly could. He wasn't exactly a huge Deep Purple fan, but the song was one of those legendary metal standards, and one of the few tunes from his collection that he'd found Sam humming along to. Despite his whining, his little brother actually didn't hate his "mullet rock".

Dean pulled himself up a little straighter on the railing and found that _Smoke on the Water _had somehow morphed into _We are the Champions_ and he frowned in puzzlement. He searched his cerebral rock 'n roll archives, trying to retrieve the classic riff, but instead found himself whistling _Welcome to the Jungle_.

Something was terribly wrong; he would never confuse Queen and Guns 'n Roses, what was the matter with him? He gave up whistling and gulped hard, wishing like hell for a glass of water. Or, wait a minute, Scotch. Yeah- that would make everything better. A little glass of Glenlevet, maybe a can of mixed nuts…

His feet were sliding across the tile, sliding right out from under him. _Huh, that's funny_. He watched his shirttail ride up as his body sank closer to the floor while his elbows remained propped on the rail. He looked at the floor, had the tiles always been white _and_ black? His jeans too, and his boots, it was like someone had flicked black paint over everything.

_Polka dots are for girls _he thought sourly as the spots grew bigger, blocking out the overhead light. _Damn spots_!

There was a lurch as the elevator reached the ground floor and Dean's elbows lost their hold on the railing. The unforgiving steel kissed the back of his skull as his upper torso joined the lower on the floor, and the spots consumed everything in darkness.

**TBC**


	7. COD: Acute Iron Poisoning

**Chapter 7**: COD: Acute Iron Poisoning

Guilt and worry nagged at the back of Sam's mind as he parted ways with Dean and headed down the hall towards their father's room. Under normal circumstances, his brother was the more adept of the two of them, easily able to MacGyver his way out of almost any sticky situation. These circumstances, however, were far from normal.

Side-stepping a supply cart laden with gauze, bandages, tongue depressors and the like, Sam arrived at the door of John's room. He was by no means scared of his father, neither was he ashamed of his earlier behavior, but the knot of panic and dread tightened in his stomach nevertheless. He hadn't seen John since the evening before when he'd been all too ready to plant his fist in the older man's face. Sam had tried to shake off his bitterness since then, play it cool. He thought he'd succeeded but Dean had guessed the truth, leaving Sam with the realization that he was most definitely _not_ ready to forgive his father.

But what had happened couldn't be erased. Sam knew this and also knew better than to try. He didn't much care if John never spoke to him again, he just needed to get them all out safely and put this stop sign of a town in his rearview. Puffing out his chest with a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, Sam turned the knob and opened the door.

John looked much the same as he had the day before, only in worse need of a shave. He was still garbed in the hospital gown, but the IV had been removed. He was sitting upright in bed, scribbling furiously on a legal pad he'd no doubt talked one of the nurses into finding for him.

Sam noticed the disheveled stack of yellow papers already covered in the eldest Winchester's untidy script perched on the edge of the bed's desk/tray. He couldn't make out the words from his position by the door, so he edged closer, stuffing his hands in his pockets to appear curious and non-threatening.

John's hand paused momentarily, pen hovering over the paper, and he flicked a glance up to Sam. "Would you believe that dumbass doctor actually wanted me to wear a cast?" he asked with usual gruffness, waving his pen at his bandaged right leg before returning to his writing.

Sam's eyebrows shot up and he rocked back a little on his heels; this was definitely not the greeting he'd anticipated. He quickly returned his face to a normal, blank expression before answering. "You had a .45 caliber bullet lodged in your tibia, I think that warrants a cast," he said with as much neutrality as possible.

John didn't respond, but lowered his pen and stared a hole through the cardboard topper of the pad. Sam waited, not quite sure what to do or say. He knew that it was only a matter of minutes, seconds even, before the police obtained their names and room numbers, but he didn't see that any good could come from rushing John Winchester. His impatience, however, finally got the best of him.

"Dad, look – the cops are downstairs and we have got to -"

John looked up suddenly, his brown eyes strangely moist. "Sammy," his voice sounded too thick. "You should go."

Sam gave a distressed grimace. "What? Dad…"

"You said so yourself, the cops are down there," John said calmly.

"Dad," the panic welled up from Sam's gut and filtered through his voice to become anger. "I don't care if you're still mad at me- at Dean- but we can't have this argument right now!"

"Sam…"

"No, dammit!" his hands had slipped out of his pockets and balled into fists. "We both said stupid shit that we shouldn't have, and if I was a better man I'd apologize…"

"Sam…"

"We don't have time…"

"SAMUEL WINCHESTER!" John roared, rattling the glass of water on the bedside table. The part of Sam's brain that was a ten year old little boy snapping a salute to Daddy's orders told his mouth to shut up and he stood there in stunned silence.

John took a moment to collect his breath and thoughts, his eyes searching those of his youngest child. "Sammy-" his voice faltered. "I don't care about our fight, I don't want you to apologize," he held up a hand to silence the words forming on Sam's lips. "And I most certainly don't think your brother is weak." He gave a sad hint of a smile. "You two are the strongest men I know."

A lump rose in Sam's throat and he hastily tried to swallow it away. "Why are you saying all this, Dad?" his voice sounded strange to his own ears.

"Because…because I need you to leave here, without me."

"What?" Sam drew nearer to the bed, visibly shaking. "That's stupid; I'm not leaving you here."

"Son," John sighed from deep within his core. "I know you don't understand this now, but you have to trust me. The two of you are better off on your own."

"Bullshit! You were the one who said we were stronger as a family!" Sam turned and began to pace alongside the bed. "What's different now?"

"Everything, Sam!" John leaned forward, his eyes pleading. "This whole thing with the demon – it's so much bigger than I thought. I don't want you and your brother to get hurt anymore." He was now on the verge of tears. "I don't want to lose you boys because of my fight."

Sam sat down heavily at the end of the bed and faced John. "It's not just your fight, Dad. It's mine and Dean's too. We're all in this together."

They locked matching brown eyes, each trying to understand the other's perspective. In their brief silence, before father or son could speak, both distinctly heard the rapport of a gun. If Sam guessed correctly, it was a .45 Smith & Wesson with a mother of pearl grip…

-O-

"Well, I _was_ looking for your brother, but I guess you'll have to do instead."

The voice was almost human and the undercurrent of evil would go unnoticed by the mortal populous. It was a fairly safe bet that only a Winchester would detect the edgy clip to the words and correctly evaluate the speaker as a demon. Said demon could then only hope that the Winchester in question was dead or unconscious. For the moment, this demon was lucky.

Dean's eyes cracked open marginally, and what little he could see of the world spun in a vortex of light and color. He pressed them shut almost immediately and rolled his head so that his cheek pressed against the elevator's tile floor. At the moment, his fuzzy brain was having trouble connecting the dots as to what had just happened. One second he'd been standing, or slouching rather, in the elevator whistling his heart out, the next thing he remembered was blackness. He'd passed out, his body's natural defense against this haphazard scheme of walking around before he was healed. But for some reason, he'd been pulled from his much needed beauty rest. He rolled his head again, feeling the rapidly growing knot that hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.

He tried to take a deep breath and found his airway constricted, his chest was too heavy to lift. Opening his eyes for a second time, he blinked rapidly, smudging away the protective tears with the back of a weak hand. Slowly, things started coming into focus, and Dean noticed a large, dark object perched on top of his chest. He blinked away the remnants of his blackout and squinted, now able to identify the object as a black, well-polished shoe.

Dean frowned in confusion. The fluorescent lights seemed much too harsh in his current state and he was unable to identify the person attached to the shoe.

"What the fu…" his tired lips tried to mumble but were cut off as a hand descended from the heavens and took hold of his collar. A second hand joined the first, the shoe vanished and Dean found that he was suddenly being lifted from the floor.

The man doing the lifting was shorter than Dean by a good two or three inches. He was dressed in a dark suit and red tie, his features non-descript but his eyes - oh God his eyes. They were black, swirling wells of despair, the spots where pupils should have been flecked with even deeper hues of evil.

Dean could hear the worn cotton threads of his shirt snapping under the strain of supporting his muscled form, but his captor showed no such signs of weakness. A second man swam in Dean's periphery, just outside the elevator doors. _This must be it_ he thought. _This is what death looks like_.

The possessed man, obviously some sort of law enforcement official, continued to lift Dean even higher, the soles of his boots losing contact with the floor. The plain mouth sneered nastily. "I thought you Winchesters were bullet proof." His chuckle was deep, humorless and cold.

"No," Dean croaked, his unrestrained hands moving ever so slowly under the demon's gaze. "And you're not either." His palm found the butt of his pistol and his fingers closed around the grip.

The demon realized his error as the .45's muzzle pressed against the host's chest and Dean pulled the trigger. With a crack of thunder, the round seared through flesh and bone, instantly dispensing the demon in a misty cloud of ebony. The human host's hands released their captive, the body crumpling to the ground. Cause of death: acute, consecrated wrought iron poisoning.

**TBC**

**AN: I originally had their escape from the hospital planned as one chapter, but it was going to be super long, so I broke it into two. Personally, I can't wait to get them out and move this thing along, but I didn't want to rush John and Sam's conversation. And don't worry about the last line; the guy wasn't really poisoned, I just borrowed one of my dad's corny little sayings, so laugh at me if you want!**

**Also, a little side note on the credibility of the police work in this fic. In my neck of the woods, we have some pretty unresponsive, Reno 911 style law enforcement. You're lucky if you can get them to respond to a tripped burglar alarm that same night. If you're real lucky, the dispatcher will tell you it's a false alarm and to go back to bed! Our boys "crashed" in a seriously backwater, po-dunk town in Missouri, so my guess is the police response would resemble that of my town's finest. If they arrived at a crash site where all parties involved were dead or unconscious, priority one would be rushing all victims to the hospital. Even criminals don't get interrogated if they're bleeding out on the side of the road. Secondly, cops don't wait at the hospital for victims/suspects to wake up, even on Law & Order they ask the doctors to call them if the patient wakes up. While I probably delayed the investigation a little too long, the cops most certainly wouldn't have expected the guys to be up and walking around. Not to mention, Sam would certainly be slick enough to pose as a detective long enough to get the Impala out of the police impound lot and retrieve the slug from the evidence locker. We're talking about local officials here, not the team from CSI: NY.**

**Okay, sorry for rambling on and my many thanks for listening. I just wanted to clear up my crazy thought process. Look for the next chap sooner rather than later.**

**- Uzi. **


	8. Another One Bites the Dust

**AN: Eek! I know I promised I'd have this out sooner, but one again I had trouble with the delivery. I post each chapter as I write it, so sometimes it takes longer than anticipated. Also, I really was trying to get our boys out of the hospital, but things just kept dragging on. No promises on the time of my next post…hopefully it will be sometime this week.**

**Uzi**

Chapter 8: Another One Bites the Dust

"Dean," Sam whispered as the echo of the gunshot died in his ears. His breath caught painfully in his throat, seemingly cutting off the flow of oxygen rich blood to his brain. He sat there dumbly, terror-stricken eyes riveted to his father's face.

"Go, Sam!" John lurched forward and took a frightfully strong grip on his son's forearm.

"But…Dad…" Sam shook his head, his mouth working silently.

"Now, son!" John's face hardened, morphing into the mask he and his oldest son had crafted for use while hunting. "Go to your brother…I'll be right behind you."

Hearing his father's concession to leave, Sam snapped from his fog and bolted upright, the Glock's familiar weight finding his hand. He paused half-way to the door to shoot a distressed glance to John who was already swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"I'll make it an order," John growled, and then Sam was gone.

-O-

He didn't relish in this kind of kill. It was wrong. Dreadful, horrible, ungodly kinds of wrong that caused the images of death to writhe like worms inside his already pounding skull. He'd been able to reason before that he'd pulled the trigger to save his brother, his father, and mankind in general. But this time was different. He'd shot a man to save his own sorry ass. To make matters all the worse, he hadn't even had the Colt, so the demon had gotten away. The black vapors had dispersed in the air, escaping a one-way trip to hell while the innocent human life was stilled in the span of a heartbeat.

Dean would beat himself up over his decision later and he would ponder at the shallowness of his own soul. But now wasn't the time. Now, he was crashing to the floor in a moaning heap as the lifeless fingers released the collar of his shirt.

"Fuck!" His abdominals spasmed afresh as he twisted to keep his battered cranium from making contact with the tile yet again. He rolled to his side upon impact, squeezing his eyes shut to quell the onslaught of nausea. "Oh Jesus," he muttered, willing his stomach back down his throat and forcing himself up on one elbow.

The .45 lay within easy reach, the lights glaring painfully off the grip's pearlescent finish. Carefully and deliberately, Dean scrambled up on hands and knees and reached out towards the weapon.

The activity just beyond the elevator droned like the annoyance of so many flies. Patients, nurses and the like were going hysterical in the ER, a wrought iron bullet just having ripped through the air and undoubtedly ricocheting off of something.

Dean made a poorly formed mental note to thank Sam for having the sense to load his gun with iron just in case. Sometimes the kid could be downright thoughtful. Good boy Sammy…

_Focus dammit! _He scolded himself for the lapse in awareness. A mild concussion was no excuse for falling down on the job, literally. He stretched his left hand further towards his gun. His fingers brushed the butt, began to close around the grip…

In one startlingly quick motion, someone took hold of his ankle from behind and jerked him backwards. He belly-flopped on the tile, just barely managing to hold on to the .45, and swore painfully as this new threat began dragging him from the elevator. He recalled the dim figure standing behind his original captor and wished like hell he could kick himself. Of course they would come in sets after what happened with Meg. No since risking your evil ass if the brothers Winchester could take you on so easily. Better to use the buddy system from hell.

Dean allowed the monster in cop's clothing to drag him free of the narrow elevator chamber, waiting until he had more freedom in which to make his move. He winced as every crevice in the tile rubbed across his staples, further bruising the puckered flesh. Something brushed his hip, and he saw the bleeding body of the first host from the corner of his eye. Anger coursed through him in fresh waves. He felt nothing but pure hatred for the being that gripped his ankle like a vise, for the _thing_ that threatened his family yet again.

It pulled him into the middle of the ER and the crowd scattered up against the walls, the screams becoming deafening. _This is it_ Dean thought as his elbow cleared a chair-leg, his entire body now in the open. He sucked in a shallow breath, willing away the pain and bracing for his next movement. _Here goes_…

He pushed off from the floor with his left arm and twisted his torso around to bring the right hand that clenched the S&W. The pain was incredible, nearly bringing stars to his eyes, but he blinked them away and took aim at the uniformed "officer" that still held him. The angle was off, way off, but Dean figured it was his only shot and pulled the trigger.

The round grazed the thing's shoulder, eliciting a cry of surprise, and burrowed into the plaster wall.

Dean writhed and brought the gun around again, preparing to fire a second shot.

"HEY!" One voice boomed above all others in the emergency room and the small knot of people sheltered in the stairwell alcove broke apart like water on rocks. A similar, staccato gunshot rang against the walls and Dean's raised ankle fell to the floor along with the possessed officer.

With a hiss and a groan, Dean pulled up into a sitting position to see…Sam. Amazing, wonderful Sam came charging through the crowd, stowing the Glock in a baggy pants pocket and reaching out towards Dean.

"Dean! Are you okay, you hurt?" Absolute panic ran rampant across the younger man's features as he finally reached his brother.

"Nice shootin', Sammy," Dean forced a weak smile. "Man am I glad to see you."

Sam crouched in front of the older man, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Can you get up? We gotta get out of here." Apparently the panic was leeching over into his voice as well.

"Where's Dad?" Dean shrugged his brother's hand away and fixed the younger man with the sternest expression he could muster.

Sam chewed his lip in frustration. "He's coming, I swear," he added in response to Dean's arched eyebrow. "Come on!" he took hold of Dean's bicep and gathered himself to rise.

A set of unidentified fingers closed across Sam's shoulders and squeezed gently, drawing his attention and preventing his escape. He spun in his crouch, already reaching for the Glock, and registered a woman standing just behind him. She leaned down towards the brothers, her lightly freckled face flushed, chunks of reddish hair swinging loose from a once tidy bun. Almost unconsciously, she tucked an ID card fixed to a petite chain back into the neck of her blouse, but not before Sam had a chance to glimpse the name: Carolyn.

"Are you alright?" she asked breathlessly of Dean, swapping her gaze between the two men.

Dean leaned back in surprise, completely dumbstruck. "Yeah- I guess," he finally managed. He swapped a look with Sam who seemed to be at a complete loss as well. The younger brother was squinting at the newcomer, apparently trying to decide if he was hallucinating.

"We have to hurry, come on!" she whispered urgently and motioned for them to stand.

The brother's shared another disbelieving frown, but decided it might be better not to press their luck. If this Carolyn person turned out to be some undercover fed or demon-harboring zombie, they would deal with that when it became necessary. At the moment, they just needed help.

Sam wrapped a strong arm around his brother's waist and pulled them both to their feet. Dean struggled to regain his balance, desperate to avoid looking weak or impaired. His legs wobbled dangerously, knees threatening to buckle, but he gritted his teeth and stayed upright.

"I'm fine, Sammy," he lied quickly to his brother's unasked question, earning a dark look. He ignored Sam's penetrating stare and began shuffling across the now empty ER, grasping at the backs of chairs for balance.

Sam cursed under his breath and began to follow Carolyn, one hand hovering near Dean's shoulder should it be needed. He supposed the staff had ushered those awaiting treatment into a hallway somewhere, away from the lunatic gunmen. Several interns were huddled behind the reception desk, gawking at Carolyn as she led the shooters down a narrow alley marked _Records_. Sam knew it was only a matter of minutes before a fresh batch of untainted cops arrived. In fact, he was surprised hospital security hadn't already pinned him and Dean up against the wall.

Dean staggered at the mouth of the hall, grabbed wildly for Sam's arm and nearly pulled them both down to the floor. Sam took several wobbly jogging steps forward to regain his balance, catching a fistful of Dean's shirt and righting him as well.

"Shit!" Dean leaned heavily against his brother, hating his own weakness.

Sam slipped an arm around the older man's broad shoulders wordlessly. He knew that Dean always refused help if at all possible, but this time he wouldn't take no for an answer. It worried him when Dean didn't protest this time. "Slow down!" he called to the redhead who was already rounding a corner up ahead.

Carolyn halted and looked back toward the brothers, worrying her bottom lip between small white teeth. "We have to hurry," she whispered, dabbing at the sweat beading up at her hairline. "I think Julie called the cops. Lucky for you we don't have security, so I think I can buy you some time," she began to wringing her hands nervously. "If someone finds out what I'm doing…oh God…"

"No one's gonna find out," Sam assured quickly, adjusting his arm around Dean. "I swear you won't hear from us again."

She smiled a bit sadly at his words, an odd reaction Sam thought. "Come on," she jerked a thumb down the hall. "You can get out through the back loading dock."

Sam nodded, motioning for her to lead the way.

"Wait," Dean spoke up suddenly, his voice rusty. He willed his knees to lock and he stood up a little straighter beneath Sam's hold. "Why are you helping us?" His question was blunt, to the point, and edged with a little disbelief. Typical Dean.

Carolyn flicked her gaze back and forth between the two men, eyes lingering over Sam's features. "They were looking for you," she spoke at last, voice clouded with uncertainty. "The guy in the suit, he had your picture," she pointed a manicured finger at the younger Winchester.

Sam swallowed hard, feeling Dean's gaze cutting in from the side.

"And," she continued, brow crinkling. "He seemed so…so…so _wrong_." She wrapped her arms around her torso as though overcome by a sudden chill. "When you…shot him, there was this…I don't know…this cloud or something. Call me crazy, but I don't get the feeling you two are the bad guys here."

"Now that, Sammy," Dean mustered a scrap of a devilish grin. "Is our kinda woman."


	9. About Your Car

**AN: Yay! I finally updated again. Just to warn you, this chapter is longer than the others, but I needed it to be. Thank you so much for all of my wonderful reviews, it makes all the writing worth while.**

Chapter 9: About Your Car…

The further they progressed down the hall the narrower it seemed to become. More than one of the tubular fluorescent lights had been removed and never replaced. Black, window-less doors dotted the walls; the open ones revealing rows of shadowy bookcases and filing cabinets. Here and there a dusty old portrait of one of the hospital's founding fathers was dispersed amongst the doors; the painted eyes watching the Winchesters behind coke bottle glasses.

Sam didn't know how much longer his stomach could keep the bubbling mix of panic and pain from surging up his esophagus. His cracked ribs hadn't been much more than a twinge up until now, but supporting Dean's solid weight brought fresh crackles of tenderness. The elder Winchester was also trying to play off his weakened condition, but Sam knew he was in no shape to ward off another attack. Sam also knew that he didn't trust the owner of the black heels that clicked loudly on the tile ahead of them. Leading them deeper into the shadows.

"We're almost there!" Carolyn's hushed exclamation broke the rhythmic cycle of silence and Dean's labored breathing. "Hurry!" she called over her shoulder and disappeared around the next corner.

Sam paused and felt Dean's shoulders lurch forward beneath his arm. Dean rotated his head up and around, eyes flashing in confusion.

Sam worried a chapped lip between his teeth and winced at the unasked question. Here they stood so close to freedom and yet he couldn't take the last ten steps. He looked down at his older brother, wanting to request reassurance but not sure how to form the words.

One corner of Dean's mouth pulled up in a smirk, somehow managing to seem like the one holding Sam up instead of the other way around. "It'll be fine, Sammy," he said simply, the words conveying confidence beyond their current predicament. They would be fine, Dad would be fine, and their future together would be fine. He was going to see to it. With a nearly imperceptible wink, Dean shrugged off Sam's arm and rounded the corner.

Sam gulped and followed, unsure of what fate awaited them just out of view…

Carolyn stood just a little ways ahead, holding open a heavy door marked emergency exit. Sunlight coursed through the opening, setting her auburn hair ablaze with a red sheen. No group of black-eyed minions awaited them. No legions of hell's army. No angry mob of pitch fork wielding villagers. There was only an empty concrete loading dock, littered with the remnants of twenty years worth of smoke breaks.

Sam and Dean shared a look, the elder looking a bit smug at his own intuition.

"The main visitor lot is just around to your left," Carolyn was saying. "Any cops should come in through the front, so I think I can buy you enough time…"

"Dad," Dean said evenly. Not a question or a request, just a simple statement. He looked back over his shoulder at Carolyn. "We're not leaving without our dad."

Taken aback, Carolyn flicked a distressed look to Sam. "What?"

"Our dad's here too," Sam explained, turning around with Dean to face their angel of mercy. "When I came to help my brother he told me to go on…he said he would catch up." Sam had trouble hiding the guilt in his voice.

"But he's hurt," Dean added with a scowl. "And he's coming with us." He folded his arms loosely, trying to look tough while careful to avoid contact with his staples.

Carolyn pursed her lips and mimicked his body language. "If you two don't get a move on right now you'll be pushing up daisies behind the county courthouse. Catch my drift?"

"I'm not leaving without…"

"Just go!" she waved a hand towards the world beyond the hospital. "Bring your car around here and I'll make sure your dad gets out. I promise."

This seemed to appease Dean. Both brothers had their doubts, but so far Carolyn truly seemed to want to help them escape. They nodded.

"Good," she smiled quickly. "Now how will I know it's him when I see him?"

"About this tall," Dean waved a hand somewhere in between he and Sam's heights. "Looks like him," jerked a thumb at Sam ", only handsomer like me."

Sam frowned and Carolyn disappeared back into the hospital.

-O-

Carolyn took the last turn out of the back hallway and froze.

"Oh shit."

Four uniformed state patrol officers were sniffing around the deserted ER like a pack of bloodhounds while Barney Fife himself was holding court with two of her interns. This particular deputy was one of the sheriff's favorites and he cruised around town with his chest puffed out like a prized game hen. Deputy Kline was overweight, overbearing, and an all around dickhead. If he knew the rest of the town called him "Barney", there was a good chance his ego might deflate marginally.

Carolyn mussed up her hair a little more, composed her features into a distressed expression and rushed forward. "Oh! Deputy Kline thank God! It's been horrific!" she cried in a performance worthy of an Oscar. "The shooting and the screaming, I just don't know what happened!"

The two interns, Becca and Amber, gave their boss perplexed glances.

"Calm down, Miss Carolyn, calm down," Kline's beefy face split in his imitation of a smile. "The state boys are going over the scene now since we don't have a crime unit to call in. Your staff tells me the shooters got away."

"Uh…yeah, that's right," Carolyn shot a look to Becca who was nodding animatedly at the deputy.

"Yep, just like I said earlier," the high school grad assured. "They took off out the front in a green Jetta."

Carolyn made a mental note to bake the girls two batches of brownies that afternoon. She was looking at them both, trying to keep her warm smile of thanks hidden when she noticed movement in the distance. The door leading from the stairwell had opened and someone was coming through. She took a step back and craned her neck for a better look. Deputy Kline, lost in conversation with Becca, was completely oblivious to her actions.

The mysterious figure came into view. It was man, she couldn't tell his age, but guessed he was older than he appeared. Dark hair, dark, sharp eyes, a vaguely familiar face. He was dressed in obviously pilfered scrubs, the legs and sleeves gapping well above ankles and elbows. He leaned heavily to the right, and she noticed a bulge beneath the too-short right pant leg. This was the father.

He scanned the room with the ferocity of a wolf at the hunt and his eyes landed on Carolyn. She met his gaze momentarily, found it too intense and looked away. With her second dramatic performance of the afternoon, she put one hand to her stomach and one to her mouth.

"Excuse me, I don't feel well," she pushed past the deputy and flashed a thumbs up to Becca behind her back.

"You know," she heard the girl tell Kline. "Come to think of it, one _did_ have dreadlocks…"

-O-

"God, Sam. How far away did you park?" Dean whined as he paused in a crouch behind a minivan.

The younger man was busy peeping over the roof of a Saturn to glimpse the state patrol cruisers slanted in front of the emergency room doors. He figured they had maybe five minutes to drive around back. He hoped against all odds that their father would be waiting and they could finally get the heck outta dodge.

"Sam, did you hear me? Where's the car?"

Sam ducked below the Saturn once more and continued slinking down the row of cars. He was trying to avoid Dean's question as long as possible.

But apparently, avoidance wasn't going to be an option. He felt Dean's knuckles dig into his back as the older man snatched up a handful of his shirt. Sam stumbled and went down on his hands and knees, the pavement biting into his palms and the jolt radiating through his bad shoulder.

"What?" he hissed angrily, turning to face his brother.

Dean's jaw was set in that stubborn mule face of his, the one that refused to go unanswered. "Where-is-my-car?" he asked dangerously, eyes glittering.

Sam rubbed the back of his head unconsciously. "Yeah…um…about your car…"

"What about it?"

"Well…you see…"

"Saaaaam…"

"Dean, I'm real sorry, but…"

"But…"

"You're not gonna like it."

Dean's eyes widened. "Dude, if you scratched her again, I swear…"

Sam held up a hand, halting the other man mid-threat. He took a deep breath. "First you have to promise you won't yell or scream or do anything to draw attention to our locale. Deal?"

"Sam…"

"Deal?"

A sigh. "Deal," he said grudgingly.

Sam took an even deeper breath, preparing for the worst. " Dean, when we…crashed, that semi hit us pretty damn hard. Man, I'm really, really sorry, but the car…just…isn't drivable."

Dean gasped loud enough to wake the dead, his breath hissing inward violently as he reeled back. "Liar!" he accused, waving a finger at Sam's chest and covering his mouth in shock.

"Keep it down!" Sam grumbled. "And no, I'm not lying."

"What did you do with her? God, did you just leave her on the side of the road?" Dean exclaimed too loudly for Sam's comfort.

"Dean," Sam matched his brother's earlier loaded tone. "You need to calm down, right now."

Dean scowled.

"Your car is seriously fucked up, and we can't stick around while we wait on it to be fixed."

Another scowl.

"I did, however, pay to store it for a while until we can get back. Until then, we need alternate transportation. I had to make an executive decision. I'm not exactly happy about it, but I did what I had to."

There was smoke coming out of Dean's ears but he remained silent. He sat there for several moments, hugging his knees and shooting dirty looks at the ground. Finally he raised his head, brow furrowed with deep distress. "Fine, but if you picked some fairy pink girl car…I swear…" he let the threat hang because Sam was already stalking his was through the parking lot again.

Sam was trying his best to stay low; not an easy task for someone of his height. His last peek at the front of the hospital from underneath a Jeep had revealed two deputy cruisers joining the fray. Not for the first time in his life he was amazed at the casual air of the uniformed men strolling through the double doors. Law enforcement at its finest.

"The truck's at the end of the next row," he whispered over his shoulder, slipping between an Accord and a Grand Prix.

Dean snorted with disgust, then the sound morphed into a grunt as his head connected with the Accord's side mirror. "Damn this car!" he gave the door a well measured kick in passing. "Damn it to hell!"

Sam figured this reaction to be Dean's way of coping with the news of his treasured Impala's demise. Secretly, he hoped his brother wouldn't continue to release his frustration upon their new ride. He really did like the truck.

"Alright, here we go," Sam came around the second to last car in the row and arrived at the rear end of the truck. He looked over his shoulder to see that Dean had halted and was scrutinizing the vehicle intently. He cocked his head to the side like a dog, no doubt taking in the shine of the chrome bumper and step rails, the deep gloss of the midnight paint and the contrasting white and red 4x4 decal positioned just behind and above the rear wheel. The tall, beefy tires glinted with protective gel.

"Well…" Dean began.

Sam raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"I'll ride in it, but that doesn't mean I have to like it."

Sam smiled slightly. "No one ever said you had to."

-O-

John shaded his eyes from the mid-afternoon sun and watched in disbelief as a black monster of a truck came flying into the loading bay in reverse. Its deep, throaty rumble echoed against the concrete ramps, intensifying the sound. He continued to stare as the vehicle was thrown into park and his youngest son came spilling out of the driver door.

Sam's eyes immediately snapped to his father, his relief evident. "Dad, come on!" he called, already opening the rear door.

John nodded then turned to the young woman standing beside him. "I can't…thank you enough," he told her softly. "I can't thank you for the help you've given my boys and me."

Carolyn smiled up at him, adjusting her grip on the door she held open. "Thank _you_ for giving me a story worth telling my grandchildren some day. This is the most excitement I've seen since Keith Urban's tour bus broke down on his way through to St. Louis." She chuckled at the memory.

The truck's backseat ready, Sam came bounding up to them. "You alright, Dad?" he asked, allowing a look of confusion over his father's wardrobe before turning to Carolyn. "Carolyn, thank you so, so much." He dug a scrap of paper bearing his name and cell number from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. "If you ever need help call us."

She divided a look between the two men, curious, but not quite doubtful as to what sort of help they might mean. "Good luck," she told them and watched as the wounded father was helped to the truck by his son. Yet again she was struck by an unnamed emotion, something that panged in her heart for these strange men. It was as if they were larger than life somehow, so much more important than the people they encountered everyday yet oblivious to the fact.

"Good luck," she whispered quietly to herself this time. Then with a growl and a squeal the truck was off and the Winchesters were gone.

**TBC**


	10. The Other Missouri

Chapter 10: The Other Missouri

The rain had come on slowly and softly, pattering silently against the Silverado's windshield in a competition to be heard above the roar of the engine. The wipers swished back and forth on the lowest setting, clearing the view of an endless stretch of deserted highway.

Sam tried unsuccessfully to relieve the cramp in his right leg without taking his foot from the accelerator and flicked on the radio to take his mind off the discomfort. The volume was super low, but he could discern the opening notes of Zeppelin's _Heartbreaker_. Sam didn't particularly care for the song, but it was one of Dean's favorites. The older man couldn't appreciate the song at the moment, having fallen asleep the second they hit the highway, but Sam would leave it on anyway.

Sam cast a quick glance to his right, noticing that despite all of Dean's whining about the truck, he'd taken full advantage of the reclining bucket seat. The middle Winchester rested peacefully, head lolling to the side, breaths coming relatively easy. Sam half expected to see blood bubbling from between his brother's lips and he sighed with quiet relief when his fears remained ungrounded.

The cramp pulled tighter in his leg and he adjusted his grip on the wheel in order to massage the afflicted limb. A movement that did not go unnoticed.

"Sam, pull off and stop somewhere for the night if you need to," John spoke up softly from the backseat. With his tone lowered, the gravel could be detected in the eldest Winchester's voice. It made him seem older and more tired than he ever let on; less like a marine and more like the afflicted soul that he was.

Sam met his father's gaze in the rearview mirror. John was seated with his back up against the door, his injured leg propped up on the seat beside him. He had to crane his neck awkwardly to meet his son's reflection, emphasizing the fact that they all three needed to "pull off somewhere for the night".

"I'm fine," Sam lied, returning his eyes to the road. He couldn't help but be ashamed of the awkwardness that lingered between the two of them. He'd apologized, or at least he'd tried to, and that should have patched things up, right? He sighed. Things had always been rocky with John; a fact that couldn't be denied. But now things were different. They'd found the colt. They'd faced the thing that killed Mary and Jess, they'd fought, and they'd failed. It was like dumping all the Cracker Jacks out of the box only to find there wasn't a prize inside. In fact, it was like finding a hole in the bottom of the box and realizing maybe you'd imagined the whole damn thing. Sam didn't deal well with fallout. Unfortunately, neither did his father.

"Sam," John started again, shifting in his seat. "I hate to be the candy ass here, but son, we're beat. All of us. And yes, that means you," he added to Sam's unconscious frown. "We can't fend off another attack if we're dead on our feet."

"I know, I know," Sam replied wearily. But he stayed in the far left lane, maintaining his speed as he passed one, then two signs advertising motels.

"Well?" John griped, edging up straighter and laying a hand on the back of Sam's headrest.

Sam stiffened and swallowed hard. He'd been afraid that he wouldn't make it to their destination without protests and questions. If John knew about his plan, then he was sunk. "I _am_ going to stop, Dad," he said carefully. "I just want to put as many miles between us and that hospital as possible."

John grumbled a negative response and Sam desperately wracked his tired brain for some sort of diversion. If he could distract his father long enough…

"I've got it," Sam stated, cutting off the older man mid-complaint.

"Got what?" John asked, letting his head slump back against the window.

Sam checked Dean's sleeping form to ensure their conversation wasn't disturbing his slumber. "I've got the colt," he lowered his voice with every word, hoping the news wouldn't elicit a violent reaction.

There was a heavy silence and Sam found himself holding his breath. "It doesn't matter, Sammy," John finally croaked. "It's useless now."

Sam wet his lips nervously. "It's only useless if you don't have any ammo." Holding the wheel at six o'clock with his bum arm, Sam flipped open the center CD/change consol between the front seats and withdrew a small plastic bag. He dangled it between long fingers over his shoulder for John's inspection and felt it being pulled from his grasp.

John held it gingerly in his big hand, as though it were the most precious of gemstones. It was a clear envelope, sealed with a red adhesive strip and marked "Evidence". Inside was a very used, very misshapen, yet unmistakable .45 caliber slug.

"That's the one they pulled from your leg," Sam offered in response to his father's stunned silence. "I know Dean's the chief bullshitter, but I managed to convince the idiots down at the evidence lock-up that I was a detective they've never met before." He looked around at John who was still staring intently at the bullet in his palm. "I just figured since we make our own ammo all the time…maybe we could melt this down and reuse it."

Sam hadn't been searching for his father's approval, but it felt nice all the same. "Atta boy, Sammy," John praised, his voice a little husky. His fatherly pride diverted his attention from the sign that jutted through the mist at the road's edge. The one that read _Welcome to Kansas_…

-O-

Sam had been to Lawrence only once before in his life, not counting his first six months of existence, but had committed the route to memory all the same. John had clammed up when he realized where his youngest son was taking them and a furrow had dug itself into his brow and stayed there.

Dean had awakened the instant the tires rolled across the threshold of the town, some part of his unconscious mind alert to the return to the only place that had ever served as home. He had righted his seat and now stared through the window with glazed eyes; taking in everything but only seeing the images of fire and death and sorrow that he was doubt replaying over and over in his head.

"Why are we here, Sam?" Dean asked softly, the pang of memory evident in his voice.

Sam kept his eyes on the road and blinked furiously. "Because we have no where else to go," he replied finally.

Neither of the older men spoke, acknowledging the truth of the statement.

Sam avoided their old neighborhood and took the main streets through town, noticing the lack of activity. The rain was no doubt keeping everyone indoors. The swing set at the park was empty and Sam wondered if Mary had ever taken Dean there to play as a pre-schooler. He glanced at his brother but the older man showed no visible reaction.

He piloted the Silverado down the modest business strip; past the garage where John had once worked, past the restaurants and the grocery store. It was all foreign yet familiar at the same time. It was as if a part of him knew this was where he had been meant to grow up. It was where he should have gone to school, hung out with friends, learned to drive. Where he was _not_ supposed to learn to shoot, or learn to speak Latin, or learn to snap a neck properly…The list went on and on. He would have been normal, he _should_ have been normal.

But here he was, a freak instead. Here he was driving down these streets as an outsider. Sam wondered briefly how his relationship with Dean would have turned out had they been raised by both parents in their quiet, mid-west home. Would Dean have finished high school? Gone to college? Would he have looked after his baby brother with the same ferocity and loyalty? Would the two of them be as close as they were now? The notion of sharing anything less than the granite, fraternal bond that he and Dean had formed in those early years shook him to the core. And for the moment, it quelled his curiosity about the 'what ifs' of life.

-O-

Missouri Moseley's house was set just off one of the busier streets that fed from the city square. It was just as Sam had remembered; an impressive white two-story with black shutters and doors. The original siding boards looked a little warped and weathered in places, but sported a fresh coat of paint that matched that of the privacy fence circling the back yard. The lawn was green and neatly mown, little clusters of pansies and mums lining the sidewalk. A hand-painted wooden sign up by the street designated the home as that of _Missouri Moseley: Practical Psychic_, and a neon "open" sign blazed in the glass transom above the front door.

The driveway had been expanded with crushed gravel and rail road ties in order to accommodate customer parking, but it now stood empty. Sam parked up close to the sidewalk only to find that he was rooted to his seat. He stared through the windshield, breathing a bit heavily and listening to the engine rumble.

"We could always turn around," Dean offered as he joined his brother in staring up at the house. "Maybe her 'shining' hasn't detected us yet." There was more bite to his words than normal, more hostility.

Sam set his jaw stubbornly and wrapped his fingers a little tighter around the steering wheel. "We need help, Dean."

"Speak for yourself."

Sam shot his brother an incredulous look, not understanding the hardness that had settled over the older man's features. "Dean, what the hell's gotten into you? Missouri's our friend. She…she knows about…me and…other stuff," he struggled to find the explanation that should have been all too obvious to Dean.

Dean swallowed thickly and shook his head, letting his troubled eyes fall to the floorboards.

There was an awkward silence in which Sam tried to muddle through the possible root of his brother's reaction. Sure Missouri had a way of getting under Dean's skin with her ability to read his immediate thoughts and emotions, but Sam found that to be one of her endearing qualities. He'd thought that Dean felt the same way. Apparently he was wrong.

"Well, I don't know about you boys, but I'm not spending the night in this truck," John's gruff declaration broke the silence and Dean forced his door open roughly in response.

Sam killed the engine and hastily climbed from his side of the truck to help his father maneuver down from the cab. John managed to keep the pain from his face as he eased himself out, but he leaned heavily on his son.

"Thanks, Sammy," he said quietly before Dean could make his way around the truck to where they were standing. "You did good…bringing us here."

Sam smiled crookedly, trying not to let the relief show too plainly. He was too tired to fight, and was almost giddy with the thought that he wouldn't have to.

Dean shuffled around the tailgate, one hand resting on the bumper for support. Sam thought his brother looked a bit paler than he had mere moments ago and was attributing the effect to the washed out sky when he noticed the direction of Dean's gaze. He was still in the process of turning around when her voice reached his ears.

"Well, well. It's raining men and I end up with the Winchesters." Missouri called. The plump black woman stood in the open doorway to her house, arms folded and one toe tapping at the brick stoop.

"Aren't you the lucky one?" John returned saucily to his old friend, sounding startlingly like his eldest son.

"Oh, that mouth of yours," she scolded, but her frown quickly dissolved into an expression of fretful concern. She came bustling down the sidewalk to meet them like a hen inspecting her wayward chicks. Missouri was one of the few who knew the whole, woeful saga of the Winchesters, and one of the few true friends that John could always count on when he needed a warm bed and a hot meal. Her house was a haven amongst a place steeped in horrific memories, something John had always found ironic.

"I talked to Bobby just the other day," she huffed from the exertion and Sam started forward to lend a supportive arm. "He said that you were missing," she pointed at John ", and the boys were after you and you all were in danger. My, I've been so worried, but you're all here…"

Sam reached Missouri's side and she reached out to take his offered elbow. Dean moaned softly.

"…And you're all," she looked up to Sam's face, her own suddenly becoming flushed and pained. "…Safe," she trailed off and raised a smooth, cool hand to touch the pebbly scabs that dotted Sam's face. "Oh, baby…" she let her hand fall to his shoulder and patted it softly.

Sam watched in bewilderment as her gaze flitted to his father and brother, and finally settled on John. She took a deep, shaky breath and let it out slowly before speaking. "John, I'm so sorry, honey." She shook her head. "It wasn't supposed to happen that way…I never thought…" she stopped, obviously choked up and unable to continue.

Sam looked back and forth between his father and friend, still not quite understanding. He heard a cough and shifted his gaze to Dean. The older man had a cupped fist pressed to his mouth as if he might be sick at any moment and his brow was crumpled deeply.

It didn't make any sense to him; why was Dean acting so strange? What was Missouri sorry about?

Then it hit him like a sucker punch to the stomach and he gasped with the realization. Missouri was a psychic; she could read thoughts, worries, emotions, presences…and she now knew what the three of them had endured in the last several days. It suddenly occurred to Sam that the other two men in his family were mortified by the events that had transpired in that cabin. To know that they had encountered their life-long quarry and had let it slip away was terrible in itself, but to have Missouri know…was unbearable.

He felt like a fool, how could he not have realized that this would be their reaction?

No sooner had the thought formed in his head than Missouri was wheeling around on him, deep brown eyes fixing him with a paralyzing stare. "Don't you _even_ think that, Sam Winchester!" she scolded, covering her sympathy with authority. "Of course you were right to come here. And as for you two," she turned and waggled a finger at the remaining Winchesters. "I don't want to lay my eyes on either of you until you've washed off that hospital smell and put on some clean clothes. I don't want to be nauseated at my own dinner table." She stepped forward in between Dean and John, taking a firm grip on each of their forearms. "Get on up to the house before we all catch our death in this rain!" she ordered good-naturedly, pulling them along with her.

Dean's protest died on his lips. He still looked disturbed, but some of the color had returned to his complexion at the mention of dinner. John just shook his head and smiled grimly, fully aware that there was no talking Missouri out of anything.

Sam tilted back his head and let the cold droplets splash his face, not caring that they stung his tender wounds. I just felt so good to be safe for the moment, to be accepted by someone besides family with no questions asked. After the completely hellish week he'd endured, he had to say that he much preferred this Missouri over the one they'd just left.

**TBC**


	11. Tidings of War

Chapter 11: Tidings of War

Missouri's upstairs guest bathroom smelled of lavender and vanilla; the two scents mingling together in an intoxicating enhancement of the room's coziness. The walls were a deep butter cream and stenciled with a grape leaf motif around the door and over the mirror. There were little scented candles nestled in pools of glassy, decorative stones and three kinds of soap. All of the faucets, knobs, light fixtures and towel bars were done in a brushed nickel finish, contrasting smartly with the wall color.

All in all, it was most likely the nicest bathroom that Sam had ever showered in. He had offered to let Dean or John go first, but both had refused on account of their injuries. Sam supposed that the water might sting too badly for them, but felt guilty all the same as he stripped and adjusted the water temperature.

But that guilt soon melted away as he eased his aching body under the gentle rain of the shower. He stood still, letting the deliciously hot water spray him full in the face and course down his neck and muscled chest. As the minutes ticked by, the soreness began to seep from his muscles and was washed down the drain along with a rather disturbing build-up of dirt. The steam billowed around him, no doubt fogging the mirror on the other side of the curtain

He could have stayed like that forever, letting the running water keep reality at bay. But he knew things were weighing heavily in his father's mind, things that needed discussing and mulling over. Not to mention Missouri just might skin him alive if he was late for dinner. He brushed his sopping hair from his eyes and selected a bar of exfoliating oatmeal soap from the neat stack at the tub's corner.

-O-

Dean shuddered as he wiped the damp washcloth mere centimeters from one of the long, stapled gashes across his middle. The surrounding flesh was tender enough to elicit goose bumps at the mere notion of being touched.

He stood in the center of the bedroom he was to share with Sam, his father unquestionably getting a room to himself, and tried to make the most of a make-shift towel bath. It was proving rather tricky and useless, so he gave up and dropped the washcloth to the floor in disgust, only to decide that Missouri would most definitely not approve. Sighing, he retrieved the cloth and wrapped it in his dirty t-shirt on the bed with a promise to take it to the laundry room later.

He scuffed his bare feet across the carpet, loving the way the fibers squished between his toes, and contemplated the dark splotch left by the wet cloth. He could clearly envision Missouri swatting the back of his head and using words like "lazy," "careless," or "mindless of expensive things," the nice thing being her creamy carpet.

Dean had always figured that Missouri liked him, he just wasn't sure she'd ever shown it in a very obvious way. She would forever see him as the misguided boy sneaking a hand in the cookie jar instead of the demon slaying man that he was. Especially after what she had just learned…after she had sensed the fracturing of their spirits.

A part of him wished Sam hadn't brought them to Missouri, but that part of him also acknowledged the absurdity of the wish. Sam was trying to take care of them, to keep them safe, and so far Dean had to admit that the kid was doing a pretty damn good job. His wounded pride aside, it felt wonderful to be in a real home, with plush beds, clean bathrooms, and the most delectable smells wafting up from the kitchen.

He looked around the room appreciatively, thankful that there were two twin beds instead of a single queen. The spreads were a baby blue and matched the bead fringed swags above the room's only window. There were two dark, claw-footed nightstands, one for each bed, and they were adorned with vases full of Queen Anne's Lace and sprigs of fern. Several impressionist paintings adorned the walls along with a eucalyptus wreath that Dean guessed to be source of the pleasant aroma.

Dean thought he heard the water cut off from the bathroom next door and shook himself from his brief trance. The last thing he wanted was for Sam to walk in on him shirtless and get that sad puppy look about his wounded torso. He slipped into a baggy, weathered Henley shirt and traded his boxer briefs for straight up boxers; plain dark blue in the hope that Missouri wouldn't notice they were underwear. He decided to go barefoot, his arches weary of boots and socks.

No sooner had he checked his bedraggled appearance in the mirror, he seriously needed to shave, than there came a soft knock at the door.

"Come in," he called, glaring at his reflection and smoothing a hand across his bristled cheek. He looked up when Sam entered, toweling his still-wet hair.

The younger man was sockless too, but looked slightly more appropriate in Nike jogging pants and a white muscle shirt. The shirt was covered in wet patches that clung to the skin, indicating a poor job of drying off, and Dean noticed how droopy Sam's eyes looked. He had been the only one not to catch some sleep in the truck and was now nearly dead on his feet.

"Dinner?" Sam asked, draping the towel across his shoulders.

Dean scrubbed a hand through his flat hair, raising a few feeble spikes and scowled at himself one last time. "Yeah," he said finally. "I'm starved."

-O-

"Boy, you'd better get outta my pantry before I ladle your behind something awful!" Missouri turned away from the stove, dark brows arched and her big stainless steel ladle raised in warning.

John grumbled, embarrassed at being referred to as a boy, but stopped rummaging through her overstocked pantry all the same. He shuffled over to the long, rectangular kitchen table and eased down into one of the six ladder-backed chairs, scowling darkly. "It's not my fault the strongest thing you've got around here is pineapple juice," he groused. "A _man_ needs a drink at a time like this." He was sure to emphasize his title.

Missouri returned the ladle to the steaming pot on top of the stove and gave its contents a quick stir. "And what kinda time is this?" she asked, opening the oven an inch or so to check on her biscuits.

John traced a long crack in the table's surface with his thumb and paused to breathe in the heavenly scents of whatever she was cooking. "A time of war," he said finally, shifting his brown eyes upwards to stare at a spot on the wall above her head.

He could see her pause; see the sudden tension shoot across her shoulders. "Don't be silly, John Winchester. The only war going on is the one I'm waging with the weeds in my vegetable garden." She laughed stiffly, playing her uneasiness off pretty well.

But John frowned, he knew better. He knew that Missouri knew exactly what war he was talking about, especially if she'd spoken with his old friend Bobby. He was opening his mouth to tell her so when a creaking from the staircase down the hall diverted his attention. He looked up to the doorway to see his sons come trudging in, both of which were running neck and neck in a competition to see who could look the shittiest.

Dean immediately took the seat to John's left and propped his elbows up on the table. "Smells good," he said tiredly, but his eyes sparkled with his usual zest for food.

Sam walked around the table towards Missouri. "Can I help you, Missouri?" he asked, ever the gentleman, and Dean hastily began scraping his chair back not wanting to look like a jerk.

"Heavens no!" Missouri said, patting Sam on the arm. "You just sit right down, suga' and I'll fix you up a plate," she assured and waved him towards the table.

Sam shrugged with a "well, at least I tried" look and plopped into the chair across from Dean. Relieved to be off the hook, the older man had already slumped back to the table.

"Dad, you alright?" Sam asked cautiously, flitting his eyes to his father.

Although he'd refused a shower, John had at least changed out of the ridiculous hospital scrubs. He shrugged his flannel clad shoulders and frowned. "I'd bee a helluva lot better if our hostess would quit giving me the run around and answer a few questions."

Sam made an effort to arch his tired brows and looked to Missouri quizzically. "What do you mean, questions?" he asked, watching as the psychic spooned up three bowls of what looked to be vegetable stew.

"Why don't you tell them, Missouri?" John asked pointedly as she set one of the steaming bowls before him.

"Hush!" she hissed, taking care to catch the back of the eldest Winchester's head with her elbow as she moved on to Dean. "I won't have that kinda talk at the table. It'll give you indigestion and lord knows I ain't bringing you the Maalox in the middle of the night 'cause you're too mule-headed to shut your mouth now." She dismissed him with a loud "harrumph" and reached to place Dean's bowl on the table.

But the eldest son's curiosity had been piqued by the conversation and he pushed himself upright to take the bowl from her. "Thanks," he said, stomach protesting loudly as he set the food down and followed her with his eyes as she returned to the stove.

"Don't you even ask me, Dean Winchester," she declared before he had even begun to form his question. "You're daddy's just talking nonsense again."

Dean made a sour face, troubled at having his thoughts invaded, and turned to his father. "What the hell's going on, Dad?"

"Language!" Missouri snapped as she served Sam and bustled back to the oven to remove the biscuits.

"Sorry," Dean muttered just as John sighed deeply, gathering his thoughts.

But Sam spoke up quietly, beating his father to the punch. "They're talking about _it_, about the thing that killed Mom and Jess," he nearly whispered, his eyes darting back and forth between the two "adults". "They're talking about the war Bobby said was coming."

John nodded in confirmation. Missouri spun, inadvertently tipping the cookie sheet and allowing two of the biscuits to slide off onto the floor. She covered her shock quickly with a scowl, hurrying to scoop up the wasted food.

"Lucky guess is all," Sam shrugged and stared intently at his stew, dragging the tip of his spoon through the brown liquid. "I didn't mean to…"

"It's alright, Son," John assured, fixing Missouri with a pointed stare. "We need to talk about this. We need…" he paused and both of his sons turned to him, making the necessary words all the more difficult to say. He looked to Dean; at the dark circles under his eyes and the way he hunched over his dinner, nursing the food with uncharacteristic slowness. Sam didn't look much better; his face dark with scabs and his hair, drying of its own accord, frizzing up in all directions. His boys had sacrificed everything for him; he owed this to them.

"…Help," he finished tiredly. Sam and Dean were dumbstruck, not able to recall a time when their father had come right out and used the word help.

Missouri stood at the head of the table, lips pursed and hands resting on the back of a chair. She looked to each of the three men in turn and sighed disparagingly through her nostrils. "Alright," she said at last, stepping away from the table.

"Wait, where are you going," Dean was unable to keep from blurting out as she disappeared into the pantry.

She emerged moments later, holding four glass tumblers and a bottle of Jack Daniels. "I use it in my barbecue sauce," she explained, setting the whiskey on the table and taking a seat. None of them questioned her further.

TBC

**AN: Hi! Wow, thank you to everyone who had taken the time to read and review my story, you're all so kind to a pathetically addicted fan like me. I was very worried about giving an accurate portrayal of Missouri, but y'all have been sweet to assure me that I did okay.**

**I ended this chap here because I wanted a whole chap dedicated to their conversation with Missouri; not too exciting I know, but very necessary all the same.**

**Thanks again, and have a great day!**

**Uzi**


	12. Shades of Evil

**AN: Okay, this chapter is my longest yet, so if you fall asleep from boredom in the middle, I won't blame you. But if you do manage to stay awake until the end, please drop me a note and tell me how I'm doing. It will be greatly appreciated. Thx Uzi**

Chapter 12: Shades of Evil

"Tell us everything you know," John prodded, measuring a double shot of the Jack Daniels into his oversized glass. He offered the bottle to each of his boys. Sam waved it away politely, but Dean helped himself to a single. To all of their immense surprise, Missouri took the whiskey from Dean and poured herself a tiny splash.

"Alright," the psychic caved with sudden and unusual weariness. She spread her hands palms-down on the table, staring idly at the way the overhead light glinted off her red nail polish. "I don't know too much, but seeing as how y'all won't let me be," she looked up, dark eyes fixing each of them with a pointed frown. "I'll tell you."

She scooted her chair up a little closer to the table, propped her elbows on its surface, and began. "For the past six months or so – ever since you boys left," she indicated Sam and Dean with raised brows. "There have been more…disturbances here in Lawrence. I've exorcised _four_ homes, each poltergeist nastier than the last, just in the past three weeks alone."

The three Winchester men frowned collectively.

"I'm used to dealing with cheating spouses and love-struck kids," she continued ", just simple truth readings, nothing this heavy. Up until the spirits at your old house, I haven't dealt with the supernatural for years. It's almost like you boys stirred up the dust around here, reminded the place of the evil it's known before."

John nodded as if he'd expected such news. "Any deaths?" he asked, the word "mysterious" heavily implied.

Missouri shook her head. "Not here in Lawrence. But…there's been a rise across the rest of the country. I've been watching the news, keeping an eye out for anything…unexplained. Things ain't right, boys. I can feel it, like the way you can feel a storm coming on in your bones," she shuddered and pressed a palm briefly to her forehead. "Something's stirring and it ain't pretty."

Dean swirled the contents of his glass and downed it quickly, without so much as a flinch. "The war," he said flatly. "You can feel it coming."

She nodded grimly, lips pressed in a hard line. "Yes, that's what Bobby kept calling it, "the war", like it was something new," she snorted. "All you crazy white boys runnin' round with your guns, shootin' anything that says 'boo' and calling it a war."

"Hey!" Dean started to protest, his manly pride wounded.

Sensing an argument, Sam jumped in, silencing his older brother with a wave. "Missouri, you just said this war wasn't new," he wet his lips in a pointed effort to ignore the kick to his shin that came from under the table. "What do you mean? How long has this thing been going on?"

"For a long, long time, baby," she sighed. "For far too long. We were lucky for a while; things had gotten quiet on our end. That is…" she flicked a quick, sympathetic look to John before returning her gaze to Sam. "…Until your mama died." She rubbed her arms vigorously, trying to ward off the invisible chill that plagued her spine. "Sam, honey, where's the Colt?"

"What?" Sam pulled back, brow crinkled at the question Missouri had seemingly pulled from thin air. "Up…upstairs with my things…why?"

"Go get it, please."

"Wha…"

"Now, Sam," his father ordered. "If she wants to see the gun, go get it."

Sam rose from the table, torn as to whether he should do as told or demand a better explanation. Deciding that he was beyond too tired for putting up a fight, he shuffled off toward the stairs.

"The Colt?" Dean looked at his father in confusion. "How do we still have the Colt? And how…" he turned to Missouri. "…Do you know about it?"

"Your brother held on to it," John explained first, dragging a tired hand through his hair. "He thought maybe we could melt down the slug they pulled outta my leg," he patted the breast pocket of his shirt and the plastic inside crackled in response. "Pretty damn smart, huh?" he smiled faintly.

"Hell yeah!" Dean's hazel eyes twinkled to life and his lips parted in an incredulous smile. "Are you serious? There could be another bullet? One more shot?" The momentary rush of adrenaline seemed to shake Dean out of his slump and his face twitched with its usual animation. "Dad, we could kill this son of a bitch after all!" he said in earnest, voice dropping almost as if he were afraid the words might prove false if spoken aloud.

John frowned. "Let's not get our hopes up, Dean. I hate to play devil's advocate here, but we don't know if a used bullet would even have the same effect. Hell, this asshole may not slip up like that again."

Dean mirrored John's expression, realizing that the 'slip up' had been the demon's cat and mouse game that had landed them all in the hospital. If that was a judgment of error, he hated to see what happened when the enemy was at the top of its game.

"There's an awful lot of cussing going on at my table," Missouri interrupted, drawing both men's attention.

"Me, cuss?" Dean feigned innocence with one hand swept against his heart, a hurt expression on his face.

"Boy, lightning's fixin' to strike," Missouri chided good-naturedly, having trouble masking her laughter.

Sam returned startled to see the table's occupants in a much lighter mood than when he'd left. He spared them a puzzled look, then shrugged and took his seat, carefully setting the Colt .45 on table.

"Ah, very good," Missouri said, patting Sam on the wrist with a brief, warm smile. "Now, Dean, I want you to touch the gun and tell me what you feel."

Dean arched a single brow in a "what the hell?" face. He looked at Missouri a bit warily and reached out for the antique revolver. His fingers closed around the wood and polished steel and he pulled the weapon closer, taking in the craftsmanship with an appraising eye.

"What I feel?" he asked, giving the psychic another look.

She nodded.

"Well, what I _feel_ is a damn – I mean darn – nice gun. Heavy, good quality steel; smooth and cool to the touch. The grip's a sturdy hardwood; I'm not sure which type…"

"Is that it?" Missouri asked, seemingly impatient with the exercise.

"Well, what am I supposed to say?" Dean griped defensively, pouting a little.

"Give the gun to your brother," she instructed, pointing to Sam.

Rolling his eyes, Dean handed the Colt over to Sam and mouthed _She's crazy_ behind a cupped hand.

"No I am not!" Missouri scowled at Dean before turning her attention to the younger man. "Okay, Sam. I want you to hold the gun, close your eyes and tell me what _you_ feel."

"You didn't tell _me_ to close my eyes."

"Dean, shut up," John grumbled.

Sam closed his eyes as told and tried to ignore the voices of his father and brother. At first, he felt nothing but the solid weight of the weapon in his hands and wondered if maybe Dean hadn't been right about the whole crazy thing.

"Take a deep breath and concentrate," Missouri encouraged.

He did, wondering what exactly it was that he was supposed to be concentrating on. He thought about the gun; the way they'd acquired it and the lives it had claimed. In his mind's eye he could see the vampire his father had used as a test subject; just making sure the Colt would live up to legend. He could see himself wasting another bullet as his query dispersed in front of him and the demon lived to claim another life. He could see the cabin, could recall his own indecision as his father begged that his youngest son take his life. He could smell the blood and sweat; he could hear Dean's pleas for mercy. He swallowed hard, feeling the bile rising in his throat and tried to will the memories away. But they only became more solid, more real.

"_Don't you let him kill me, Dad! Don't let me die!"_

"_You shoot me son, shoot me now, shoot me right through the heart!"_

"Stop," Sam whispered, a fine sweat springing to the surface of his skin.

"_Sam! Don't you do it!"_

"Stop!" This time it was a shout and it seemed to wipe the images from Sam's mind. They were replaced instead by an overhead view of a man dressed in old fashioned western attire: button up shirt, tan belted pants, a broad-brimmed hat. He stood at a workbench of some kind, holding a revolver in one hand and loading it one bullet at a time with the other. The gun's barrel and grip were inlaid with elegant carvings, almost like some elfish script. It looked familiar, very familiar…

The image flickered and in its stead was one of darkened alley. The buildings were a hard plaster or stucco, low to the ground and impossibly close together. Sam was seeing the night through someone else's eyes, hearing it through someone else's ears. He could feel the hard paving stones beneath his feet and the roughness of the wall that brushed his elbow, but he was powerless to move; trapped in another's vision.

Something darker than the surrounding shadows flickered at the end of the alley and the borrowed body lurched into motion; running low along the wall. The eyes swept the blackness, the heart began to pound, and the skin was cooled by the pooling sweat. There were emotions mingling in the mind; apprehension, anticipation, doubt, fear. Sam's host was waiting for something, yearning for something_, hunting_ for something.

"So you've decided to level the playing field, Sam." The voice came rolling out from the shadows like a chill down the spine. It was hard and heavy, carrying the weight of something more powerful than he could imagine. How did it know his name? Or was the stranger addressing the host?

An outline melted from the dark and two glowing orange balls sparked in the place where a person's eyes should have been. They were blinding, piercing the night with their fire.

The host's eyes never blinked at the brightness and the hands rose together, clasped steadily around something solid: a gun. A revolver, large caliber…it was _the_ gun, the Colt. It was aimed with careful precision at the shadow that should cover a human heart.

"Go to hell, if I don't kill you first," the lips whispered, and the trigger was pulled…

…And the target dissolved into the night once more. The wave of despair that came coursing through unannounced was almost unbearable. The gravity of loss and suffering pulled so heavily that Sam thought his borrowed body would become sick. The eyes closed and the back of the lids seared with the image of a woman pressed against an invisible ceiling. He watched as she burst into flames, her white gown crisping away from the already burning flesh, and recognition dawned. It was his mother.

A scream pierced the night and Sam didn't realize that it was his own. The image was ungodly yet he couldn't look away. He couldn't turn from the sight that had scarred his father so badly, from the fate that his Jessica had shared as well. Smoke began to build and he could feel it filling his lungs, damaging his airways. His eyes swam, the world began to spin, the flames danced in liquid circles, the body twirled above his head…

Then the vision was gone, sucked from Sam like water through a straw, and his fingers spasmed, dropping the Colt to the table with a metallic _clunk_. The eyes that snapped open were wide and rolling, wildly searching to right their owner in his head-long spin through reality.

"Sammy?" John and Dean were both on their feet, coming around the table to aid the youngest member of their family.

Dean reached him first, laying a comforting hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Sammy, you okay?" he dropped to a crouch beside the chair, searching his brother's face for a sign of normalcy. Sam's fingers were still curling reflexively and Dean took the other man's wrists into his hands, stopping the movement. "Sam? Come on, dude, it's okay. Just calm down."

John reached his sons' sides, but felt a bit out of place, watching as one of his boys calmed the other. So he stood, helplessly watching his youngest struggle with something that he himself had no control over.

Slowly, Sam's breathing slowed and he blinked the film from his eyes. "Awful," he muttered. "The demon…Mom…the Colt."

"Whoa, not making any sense there, kiddo," Dean tried to catch Sam's eyes with his own. "What are you talking about?"

Sam shook his head. "I…" he looked to Missouri. "How?" he asked, wincing in confusion over his own words.

Missouri had remained coolly collected throughout the ordeal, her arms folded. "It's time you learned the truth, baby," she said calmly. "The truth about that gun and the man who made it."

-O-

"So let me get this straight," Dean paused to hiccup into his fist and glared at the half empty bottle of sour mash on the table (when had that happened?) before continuing. "You're saying that Sam gets some kinda vision when he holds this thing?" He reached out and tapped the Colt before his hands stretched further for the whiskey.

Missouri removed the bottle from view, setting it on the floor beneath the table and earning a dark scowl from the young hunter. "Boy, you're already drunk as a skunk! And no, your brother doesn't have a vision just by holding the gun; he has to _want_ to see."

"I didn't _want_ to see anything," Sam sighed from across the table. He looked paler than he had before, and shivered every so often beneath the decorative throw Missouri had draped across his shoulders. "I just did like you said, took a deep breath and all."

"And by doing so you cleared your mind and allowed your powers to manipulate the gun's energies to your own needs," she smiled at him reassuringly.

John frowned at his own empty glass, idly wondering if his son's "powers" could give him a magic refill. "Can you feel its…energies also?" he asked, abandoning the glass and gesturing toward the Colt.

Missouri wrinkled her brow. "Yes, faintly. But I'm unable to touch them like Sam. It's like there's a closed window; I can see through it, but I can't put my hand through."

John nodded with feigned empathy.

"He was a psychic, wasn't he?" Sam wiped his nose with the back of his hand with as much dignity as possible before turning to Missouri.

She smiled warmly, delighted at his understanding. "He sure was, baby."

"Who?" Dean and John asked in unison.

"Missouri sighed. "Haven't you two been payin' attention? Samuel Colt of course!"

"Whoa! Time out!" Dean made the infamous T with his hands. "What do you mean Sam Colt was a psychic?"

"How else do you think he was able to forge a weapon such as this?" She asked patiently.

"Wha…" Dean looked to his father for support. "What about Halley's comet and all that shit?"

Missouri drew his attention and fixed him with a hard look. "Your daddy's right about the comet, Dean, don't fly off the handle just yet. It is true that Halley's comet possesses certain supernatural auras…all of them having played a role in the production of other weapons. There have been spears and swords, all with the power of this gun, but I think you'll find the Colt to be the most practical. Timing the production with the passing of the comet was the easy part, harnessing that power…well, that was something only a psychic could do."

"You mean to tell me that Sam Colt had abilities like you and Sammy?" John rubbed his face tiredly, having trouble with the notion of Samuel Colt being a psychic.

"Oh no," Missouri shook her head vehemently. "Colt was much more powerful than me. I can only read emotions and thoughts. Sure I can sense a presence, evil or otherwise, but what Colt did, that takes some kinda power. Power I can't touch. But your son," she patted Sam's arm reassuringly. "He could give the other Sam a real run for his money."

Sam groaned and let his forehead fall to the table with a soft _thud_.

Dean scowled. "Well that's just great. We only have to wait till the comet comes back around and Sam can use his shining to make us some more ammo. Perfect plan," he slumped against his arm, completely disgusted with the situation. Fully expecting to be chastised by one of the elders, Dean was surprised when he simply heard Missouri clear her throat quietly.

"There is…another way," she nearly whispered.

Dean looked up, shocked to see her downing the small shot of Jack she'd poured at the beginning of their unending conversation.

"What is it?" John asked intently, and Sam managed to right himself once more.

Her eyes widened, the closest thing any of them had ever seen to fear touching her face. "I don't know…I don't think I want to know. But there are rumors that there _is_ another way. Sam's connection with that gun, that's gonna find the way for you."

The elder Winchesters turned to their youngest member; John's eyes calculating and Dean's concerned.

Sam pulled the throw around himself a little tighter and shot a nervous glance to Missouri. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do," he sighed.

"You'll find a way, baby," she assured, only partially believing it herself.

"You're gonna have to," John chimed in. "We started this damn thing and we're gonna finish it."

Missouri's face soured in exasperation. "John Winchester, were you even listening to me? Your head's swelled so much you can't even hear good no more! You think you're so important that all these demons and such are out to get you."

"Well aren't they?" Sam asked, slightly taken aback.

"No!" Her tone softened. "Now don't get me wrong, you boys are important, but you're not that important. This is their war, not yours. They was all squabbling amongst themselves just fine until you stumbled into things. Ya'll didn't start this war, you just raised a few eyebrows is all. None of them intended to draw a human into the war, certainly not three. There hasn't been a disturbance like this since Samuel Colt made this gun. The night Mary died, that demon knew he'd messed up and he won't rest till he gets Sam."

"Why?" Sam asked.

She shook her head. "You fit into his plan somehow, honey. He wants you for your power, and he wants your daddy and your brother dead. You see, he intends to use you for his purpose in the war. He's fighting with all the other nasties out there. You boys seem to think that evil is black and white, that they're all on the same side. I wish I could tell you it was; but it's not. They don't all have the same agenda and they certainly don't all get along. It's not that cut and dry; there are shades of evil."

"Fortunately," John said grimly. "There are shades of good too." He looked to both of his boys before locking eyes with Missouri. "Some are just a little darker than others."

**TBC**


	13. Sad but True

**! Sorry everyone, but somhow the last three or so paragraphs of this chapter didn't upload and stupid me never bothered to check, duh! Anyway, here's the rest and it should make tons more sense now :) Now back to the original author's note...**

**AN: This chapter has taken much, much longer to write than I ever intended. I've re-written it three times and I'm still not pleased with the outcome. The story just seemed to take a life of its own and ran off in this crazy direction that I didn't even know existed. I couldn't stop it from happening! Oh well. Please, please, please let me know what you think because I may go back and post one of my original drafts of this chap instead. **

**Thx, Uzi**

Chapter 13: Sad but True

The clock in the upstairs hall struck four a.m. and Dean shifted restlessly beneath his covers, vainly searching for a position that didn't inflict further pain on his battered body. He opened eyes that had become _very_ well adjusted to the darkness during the night and stared at a quirky little water stain at the ceiling's edge. He idly wondered why Missouri hadn't repainted the dark blotch. For that matter, who was to say the leak had even been repaired? Perhaps the whole damn ceiling was poised and ready to drop on their heads at this very moment…

"Sam, you awake?" he called softly, not really wanting to disturb his brother but ready to use a more forceful tone if necessary.

"Nope." came the clear, coherent, and most definitely _awake_ reply.

Dean sighed loudly, letting his lips flap at the end of the breath, and rolled onto his side with infantile slowness. He found that by holding his breath and clutching his pillow to his chest, he was able to keep the fire in his abdomen to a dull, throbbing ache as he eased into a lounging position propped up on his right elbow.

Glistening beams from a near full moon poured through the window between the two twin beds and illuminated a wedge of Sam's foot that was dangling over the adjacent mattress. Through the bluish haze Dean could just make the long, shadowy shape of his brother and registered tiny flickers of movement.

"Why can't you sleep?" Dean asked, just barely stifling a yawn.

"Why can't _you_ sleep?" Dean recognized the annoyance in Sam's voice, but through brotherly intuition knew that it wasn't directed at him. "How _can_ we sleep?" Sam continued disparagingly. "How can Dad, or Missouri…or anybody sleep for that matter? Just knowing that…God it's insane!"

"Hate to break it to ya, dude, but you're full of shit," Dean chastised gently. "Nothing's changed. We'll just keep on…keepin' on, ya know?"

"Everything's changed," Sam insisted quickly, rolling to face Dean, the whites of his eyes glimmering in the darkness. "Dude, we just found out that Samuel Colt was a psychic. He had powers, Dean!"

"I know what a psychic is, dumbass," Dean griped, shifting his grip on his pillow.

"No you don't!" Sam leaned forward, his face entering the patch of moonlight and his grimace was highlighted. "Neither do I!" He shook his head and chuckled hollowly. "I mean, yeah, I've had visions, I've seen things, but I thought that was it. Then…that time with Max…Dude, I moved that shelf with my mind! I'm twenty two and all of a sudden I found out that I have telekinesis? Only, I can't control it when I really need to. I should have been able feel that Dad was possessed, I should have stopped him, but I couldn't! It's crazy…Missouri tells me I'm a psychic, and I guess I am, but I'm completely and utterly lost here, Dean."

The elder Winchester frowned, not at all liking the look on his baby brother's face. He'd seen Sam upset before, but the younger man's distress seemed to have taken on a whole new level of intensity. His deep brown orbs bored into Dean, not asking for reassurance, but begging.

"Don't you do that, Sammy!" Dean forced himself up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, ignoring the sharp pangs that pulled at his injuries. "Don't you dare start blaming yourself for what happened at the cabin," he ordered with hushed exclamation.

"But…"

"No buts. I know you're scared, man, and I know you're going through some weird shit. But NONE of this is your fault, ya hear?" Dean leaned forward so that their faces were only about a foot apart. He could see the wetness collecting in the corners of Sam's eyes and blinked away his own. "You and me and Dad are gonna beat this thing. We're gonna re-create that last bullet and put it through that bastard's heart. I don't care what Missouri says about the goddamn war, we're gonna end it." He stopped and took a deep breath, realizing that he was on the verge of hyperventilating. His green eyes glittered a strange aqua color in the eerie half-light and Sam recoiled slightly.

"That's great," Sam chewed his lips anxiously. "But what if we miss again? What if it possesses one of us again or what if the gun jams? Hell, we don't even know if a re-forged bullet will have the same effect!"

"First off," Dean held up an index finger. "Dean Winchester _never_ misses. Second, revolvers don't jam like automatics, third: Dean Winchester _never_ misses, and fourth," he locked gazes with his brother for emphasis. "I dare it to try and take one of us."

Sam swallowed with notably difficulty and fiddled with the frayed edges of his blue comforter. "I can use the Colt. I can try and figure out how it was made…"

"Absolutely not," Dean cut him off and karate chopped the air threateningly. "Not after what I saw downstairs earlier."

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and winced, recalling the vision the gun had induced. It hadn't been pleasant, but all the same it had enticed him into wanting more. There were long buried secrets revolving around the weapon's creation and its original owner. Questions that could lead to answers about their mother's death and about Sam's purpose in this so called war.

"I want to," he said at last, staring at Dean levelly. "I want to know the truth. About everything."

Dean sighed and dropped his head, letting his chin rest on the pillow he still held loosely. "You always were the stubborn one," Dean tilted his head so that he could look at his brother with one eye. "You almost failed kindergarten because you refused to color with anything but purple," he couldn't help the smirk that crept across his face and revealed perfect, white teeth. "Candy-ass."

"Whatever!" Sam's tired face split in a disbelieving grin. "I never 'almost' failed anything!"

Dean clucked his tongue inside his cheek and shook his head in mock sadness. "Oh, just keep telling yourself that, Sammy, but the fact remains that your ass is made of candy."

"Shut up!" Sam laughed and flopped back on his bed, obviously relieved for the humor. "I'm not the one who can't eat pickles."

"They're yucky," Dean pouted, puffing out his lower lip dejectedly.

He could hear Sam chuckle from across the room and the tightness in his chest melted away with relief. He had worked too hard to keep his brother safe over the years and he wasn't about to quit anytime soon. The thought of losing Sam to the tricks of his confused mind, that was uncharted territory and Dean intended for it to stay that way. His little brother wasn't going anywhere that he couldn't follow.

"I still want to know," Sam said quietly after the laughter had died.

"Yep, stubborn," Dean sighed, running a hand down his face. "I think it runs in the family."

-O-

It seemed to Dean that his eyes had just fluttered closed when he was awakened. Moaning, he swatted at the bedside table for his digital watch and squinted his eyes against the sudden harshness of its lit face. His vision was blurry, but he could discern that it was 6:18 and he frowned. It was still dark and Sam's even breathing from across the room indicated that the younger man was asleep. There was no blaring alarm; no screams of panic in the gathering dawn, and the ceiling had indeed remained intact above his head. So what the hell?

He was kicking the covers down around his feet, writing off his disturbance to being too warm, when he heard the unmistakable creak of carpeted floorboards. The sound came from just outside the bedroom door; the old house's protest to upholding the solid weight of whomever was traipsing down Missouri's hall. The sound repeated, but had moved as its creator began to descend the stairs.

In an instant Dean's hand darted beneath his pillow for the ever-present Bowie knife and deft fingers curled around the handle. Getting to his feet, however, proved to be a tad more difficult and he stumbled into the dressing table, the Jack Daniels pounding relentlessly in his skull. He clutched the dark wood, head down between his shoulder blades and willed himself not to puke all over Missouri's furniture. Funny how he hadn't been drunk off his ass just two hours ago while talking to Sam. But then again, he also hadn't been leaping up after strange bumps in the night at that time either.

"Wha's…goin' on?" Sam's slur was accompanied by a rustling of sheets.

"Dunno," Dean panted, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to focus on taking one deep breath after the next.

"Dean?" He could hear the springs of Sam's mattress squeak and the scuffing of bare feet across the carpet. His brother's presence was felt before it was seen and a hand settled on his shoulder. "You alright?"

Dean took one last breath and shook his head, willing the dizziness away. "Fine," he muttered, straightening and stepping carefully away from the dresser. "I heard something out in the hall."

Sam's shaggy head bobbed in the darkness. "You wanna check it out?" he asked, barely stifling a yawn.

Dean rolled his shoulders and quelled the remnants of his nausea. He couldn't help but notice the dark outline of the Glock protruding from his brother's waistband and nodded his approval. "Yep, let's go."

Dean decided that no matter his level of incapacitation, the eldest should always go first in this sort of situation, so he exited the room first, knife poised to strike. As he'd expected, the hall was clear; the doors to Missouri's and their father's rooms both closed. The bathroom door stood ajar, but he had definitely heard the mystery stalker go down the stairs so he dismissed it. He nodded for Sam to follow and began his descent; testing each step for squeaky spots before allowing it to support his full weight.

When they reached the foot of the stairs, Sam took the lead, trailing the Glock across the shadowy entrance to the formal living/waiting room and the hall that lead back to the kitchen and den. Carefully and methodically, they swept the entire lower level, managing to turn over not one, but four potted plants. Dean spread out the little piles of top soil with his bare foot, hoping that Missouri wouldn't notice and cursing the need to have giant ferns indoors.

They checked under and around every shadowy lump of furniture, in the pantry, and in the broom closet beneath the stairs only to end up in the plank-floored foyer, scratching their heads in puzzlement.

"Are you sure you actually heard something?" Sam sighed, idly fluffing his bangs.

"No, Sam, I enjoy creeping around other people's houses at night and getting attacked by killer jungle plants," Dean scoffed. "What the hell do you think? Of course I heard something!"

"Chill," Sam grumbled, turning to peer through the scrolled, decorative oval window in the front door. Then he visibly perked, his spine straightening to bring him to his full, towering height. "Dean, look!" he hissed, gesturing for the older man to join him.

"What?" he tried to elbow Sam out of the way to press his face to the glass. Through the fractured, overlapping patterns he managed to discern the outline of a man standing out on the sidewalk. His back was to them, but nonetheless Dean could recognize the broad shoulders that had been passed down to him and his brother.

He raised quizzical brows at Sam as he turned the knob and opened the door. Sam shrugged, folding his arms against the pre-dawn chill that came sweeping in to meet them.

Dean hesitated for only a second before stepping out onto the stoop; eyes locked on the man in front of him and oblivious to the goose bumps that raced up his bare legs. He detected the slightest hints of movement as the man's fingers curled and uncurled inside the pockets of his jacket; an old nervous habit. Both of his feet were planted squarely on the ground, but Dean couldn't help but notice that the left leg supported the majority of his weight.

Over his left shoulder, Dean could hear Sam's gathering of breath as the younger hunter prepared to speak and he raised a hand to silence him. Sam acquiesced and they waited, watching their father's silhouette soften as the first hints of light peeked up over the trees across the street.

"You boys know that I have to do it," John's voice was cracked and hesitant when he finally spoke, turning to face his sons. His eyes were rimmed with red, from fatigue or grief Dean didn't know, and for the moment, he didn't care.

"You're leaving," he dead-panned, nodding toward the duffel at his father's feet. Tears would be of no use in this situation, neither would begging. Dean had learned a long time ago that there was no changing John Winchester's mind when he set out to do something; you just had to shoulder the extra helping of undeserved heartache and soldier on like always. Apparently, however, Sam had been absent the day they'd covered that particular life lesson

"What?" the youngest of the three stepped up beside his brother, his face wrinkled up in confusion. "Dad, I thought we talked about this at the hospital…" he swallowed hard. "We don't need you to go…why do you keep doing this to us?"

"Sam…" Dean warned icily, watching as his father shrugged helplessly.

"We finally find you and all you can think about is getting away from us again?" Sam continued, his voice rising as if he didn't believe his own words. "I left school to help Dean look for you…Jess is _dead_ because I wasn't there…" his words faltered as the tears began to build in the corners of his eyes.

"Sammy…" John tried to scrape together the hints of an apologetic smile as he took several unsteady steps forward. "You have to understand…"

"Understand?" The fronts of Sam's eyes were glazed with moisture, giving them the sheen of a deranged jackal, and his lips peeled back in something akin to a snarl. "No, I can't understand! I can't understand why you turned us into freaks, why you ruined any chance we had for a normal life only to leave us!"

"Stop, Sam," Dean stumbled back from his brother, his eyes growing as large as saucers. "Stop saying that."

"Sam, please," John was closer now, standing on the first of the three brick steps leading to the door.

"We trained for you, we lied for you, we fought and we bled for you, Dad!" Sam cried, on the verge of becoming hysterical. "But we're still not good enough, are we? I'm still just a disappointment to you!" The tears could be contained no longer and they spilled freely down the tortured boy's face, coursing across his bruised and battered cheeks.

Dean looked back and forth between his father and brother and he snatched for the rail as his knees began to buckle. It was too much to handle at once; Dad leaving, Sam breaking down like this…his head was spinning. "Stop it, Sammy," he whispered. "Don't do this."

"Sam," John took the last step and drew level with his youngest, his own face reflecting the same torment that he shared with the young hunter before him. "Come here." He extended a hand toward his son.

Dean could do nothing but watch helplessly as his brother stiffened, sucking his sobs back into the deep recesses of his heart with a loud, shuddering breath. "No," he said, voice shaky and cold at once. Sam's tall frame trembled visibly, his hands balled into fists at his sides, but he stood his ground and refused to dissolve into his father's offered embrace. "I'm done."

The glass rattled threateningly in its frame as the door slammed shut behind Sam and the echo dared the remaining Winchesters to follow.

**TBC**


	14. Gone

**AN: Okay, if you read chapter 13 on the day I posted it, there was an uploading error and the last four or so paragraphs didn't post. I updated it, so you might want to go back and check, otherwise this won't make sense at all!**

**As always, thank you guys so much for your reviews. Like I said before, the characters are now completely out of control, but I don't think I'll go back and repost anything. This is just way too much fun! So far, I have at least two sequels for this fic planned, so don't worry, I won't strand our boys out in the cold. Hopefully I'll have the next chap up later this week, but no promises. Uzi**

Chapter 14: Gone

The paper boy, or rather paper young adult, paused at the end of the drive, extending one knobby, stork-like leg to uphold his bike while he mulled over the two men seated on Missouri Moseley's front step. He lingered for only a moment before his superstitious fear of the psychic kicked in and he dropped the paper and pedaled off on his too-small Huffy.

"See, look what Sam's missing. He could be Lawrence's star delivery boy if I'd been a _normal_ father," John grumbled wearily and dropped his chin into hands that were propped on his knees.

Dean, who hugged his own knees against the nip in the morning air, looked sharply to his father. "That's not what he means, Dad, and you know it," he said levelly, hoping his words wouldn't be taken as insolence.

John shifted just enough so that he could meet his son's gaze. "Is that it then? Do you agree with him?"

Dean turned away, chewing the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. "No," he said at last with a small sigh. "But I do respect him," he continued quickly, leaving no room for interruption. "I just don't see why the two of you can't get along."

John snorted a laugh, drawing Dean's attention, and smiled wryly. "You respect your brother. I guess that means I'm not a total failure."

"No one ever said you were a failure," Dean insisted, letting his head slump sideways against the iron rail.

John sighed and stretched his legs, wincing at the twinge in his right shin. "The problem is," he said once he'd regained a comfortable position. "Is that Sam is too much like me. You, Dean, are just like your mother; a peacekeeper. You try to keep those around you in good favor, sometimes at your own detriment. But you've always got some sly little trick up your sleeve to bring somebody around to your way of thinking," he smiled. "Why do you think you were the one who always got the girl?"

Dean shrugged imperviously. "What can I say? I'm just a sexy beast."

John arched doubtful brows. "Don't get ahead of yourself, junior," he warned sternly but his features soon softened. "Sammy, on the other hand, is just too mule-headed for his own good. Would have made a damn good marine," he tilted his head at the thought.

"He _is_ a damn good marine, Dad," Dean reminded.

John nodded in silent agreement, swallowing thickly. "I guess I just didn't tell him that often enough, huh?" Dean didn't respond, so he continued. "You know why I have to go, don't you?" His tone was quiet and searching, praying that his eldest would see the method behind the sheer madness.

Dean frowned, not liking the answer he knew to be true. "Let me guess – you need some time alone to deal with some weird, mysterious shit, and meanwhile we have a job to do." Dean waited with held breath, knowing he'd stepped over the line but not really caring.

His father shook his head sadly. "Cut and dry, huh?" he eyed Dean with a forlorn look. "But you're right. After everything that's happened, and after what Missouri said…there's just some stuff I need to take care of. I never intended to abandon you boys, and I'm certainly not doing it now."

Dean had never wanted to call bullshit on anyone so badly before in his life, but he bit down hard on his tongue instead, nearly drawing blood. He had always been the so called 'good son', the one who defended John at all costs. Maybe it was just the stress of the last few weeks, or maybe it was a sentiment long overdue, but for the first time Dean didn't really feel like jumping aboard his father's bandwagon.

A white and green striped Caprice came snaking around the bend at the end of the street, a small lit sign on the roof proclaiming it to be a taxi. John rose, working the kinks from his overused joints.

"There's an envelope on the dresser in my room," he told Dean; all business again. "I've left you everything I know about Charlie Elkins; last known residence, employment, everything."

"Elkins?" Dean hauled himself up to a standing position as well, brow crinkled in disbelief. "As in Daniel Elkins? The guy who had the Colt?" Dean conjured up an image of the ransacked cabin where Daniel Elkins had struggled to put the Colt to the test against a trio of vampires. It was the place where they'd last reunited with their father and the place where the supernatural weapon had turned everything to shit. If not for the Colt, Meg would have never captured John, nor would her father have possessed him…Dean shuddered inwardly.

"One in the same," John assured as the cab pulled to a stop at the end of the drive. "Charlie is his estranged son, hasn't seen his dad in years, but he's the only other living soul who might know something about this goddamn gun."

Dean nodded, realization beginning to dawn. "So what if we find this kid and he doesn't want to talk?"

John smiled. "Like I said, sly little tricks, son."

Dean folded his arms, a disbelieving look that wasn't quite a smile springing to his face. "Then this is good-bye, huh?"

John reached out a hand and settled a hand on Dean's shoulder, squeezing gently. "I'll meet up with you boys, I promise. I think we've already established the fact that I can't handle this bastard all by myself." His hand slid up to pat his eldest on the back of the neck. "Take care of Sammy," he whispered, and then he was gone, settling into the cab and closing the door with finality.

Dean watched the car disappear around the corner, shaking his head at the absolute insanity of it all. Then he turned grudgingly to head back into the house, not at all thrilled about the conversation he expected to have with his brother. John might be a bear, but Sam could be a real bitch.

-O-

"Dean! Dean!" Missouri met the eldest remaining Winchester in the foyer, already dressed for the day in a flowing, deep blue shawl over dark pants that did little to disguise her bulky frame. Her dark eyes were wide with worry and she fretted the hem of her shawl with trembling hands. Dean had never seen her so visibly disturbed.

"Oh honey, it's your brother," she continued before he had to chance to inquire as to her distress. "Sam…he's so upset…I could feel it, but the look on that poor baby's face…"

"Where is he?" Dean asked sharply, scanning what little he could see of the lower level for any traces of his brother.

"He's upstairs," Missouri panted. "Go to him, Dean. I'm…I'm afraid of what he might do."

The words were hardly out of her mouth before Dean was hustling up the stairs, momentarily blocking the physical stress from his mind. Only one thing mattered: getting to Sam.

A quick check of the bedroom they shared revealed that the room was empty, as was the bathroom. "Sam?" he called, trying to keep his voice calm. "Sammy, where are you?" The lack of response urged him further down the hall, the panic bubbling in his chest. Missouri had said that she was worried, what did she expect Sam to do? None of the possibilities that rolled through Dean's mind were comforting.

The door to the room John had used was cracked ever so slightly and Dean's pulse quickened upon seeing it. Preparing himself for the worst, he toed open the door and watched it swing lazily. At first glance, this room was just as empty as the others, but then he spied a familiar brown mop of hair peeping up over the edge of the crisply made bed.

Dean entered cautiously, still on guard as he rounded the end of the bed. "Sam? That you?"

The younger hunter was seated on the floor, leaning back against the bed with his legs angled out across the carpet. His head was bent over a crumpled handful of yellow paper that he gripped too tightly, his knuckles white.

Dean leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees, breathing with notably difficulty. His entire torso burned with the simple effort of jogging up the stairs, but the cleansing tide of relief was enough to wash the pain from memory. "Dude, give me a friggin' heart attack how 'bout it," he muttered with mock grumpiness, plopping down onto the bed and gazing down at his brother.

"Sorry," Sam mumbled faintly, continuing to stare at the paper and fingering its creases repetitively.

"Sam," Dean leaned forward so that his face was level with Sam's, even though the younger man refused to look up. "I talked to Dad…"

"Charles Elkins," Sam began reading loudly from the page in front of him, cutting Dean off with an overly cheery and informative announcer voice. "A.K.A. Charlie. Age: 33. Married, no children. Lives at 1642 Woodland Drive, Summerville, South Carolina. Last known employment…"

"Sam," Dean's tone was patient, but carried a heavy warning all the same.

"What the fuck!" Sam exploded to life suddenly, flinging both arms into the air and sending the papers swirling furiously through the room. He turned woeful, tear stained eyes on his brother. "What the fuck is all this? A _job_? A fucking _job_?" His voice rose with every syllable. "This is un-fucking-believable!"

"Stop!" Dean barked, pushing himself to his feet. "I've never heard you drop so many f-bombs in one conversation. Pace yourself, man!" He folded an arm across his chest and used his free hand to massage a pounding temple as he began to pace the length of the bed. "I'm so sick of all this shit between the two of you."

Sam let his head roll back against the bed and his arms dropped heavily to the floor, his outburst having sapped away the last of his strength. "He's gone," he said with entranced disbelief. "He's gone and he left us a job."

"Yeah he did," Dean scuffed the carpet roughly with each step. "He left us a name and directions…"

"And what?" Sam interrupted. "A hope and a prayer too? I won't do this, Dean. I _can't_ do this…"

"Yes you can!" Dean insisted, pausing to lock strained eyes with his brother. "You have to."

"Why?" Sam asked, squinting through the semi-permanent glaze of tears. "To please _him_?"

"No!" Dean snapped and resumed his pacing.

"Then why?"

Dean stiffened, his shoulders locking together as he stopped in front of the window. He stared out at the back yard, not really seeing any of it and trying to prevent his brother from seeing the unnatural hitch in his breathing. "Because," he whispered hesitantly, wetting his lips. "Because I don't want to do it alone." He turned to find Sam staring at him intently, his head cocked to the side in curious puppy fashion. "Because…I need your help, Sammy."

Sam shook his head, the restrained sobs twisting his mouth into a false frown. "I thought you were the one who said revenge wasn't worth losing someone," he stated questioningly, not truly knowing the answer he sought.

Dean rolled his eyes skyward to regain his composure. "It's not always about revenge," he took a steadying breath and faced Sam once more. "Sometimes, it's about staying alive."

"I don't…"

"You heard Missouri, Sam. It's coming for us…for you even. Believe me, I'm all for backing off if we could, but I just don't think that's an option right now."

"Then what do you propose we do?"

Dean scrubbed a hand through his hair and let out his breath in a loud rush. "We gotta find Elkins' kid," he said, dropping to the bed once more. "Dad says he's our best bet as far as Colt info goes. So I figure we go to South Carolina, find the little shit, and beat as much out of him as we can."

Sam smiled a bit sadly and toed a sheet of paper that had landed near his foot. "Dad was writing this at the hospital. He was going to leave us then, Dean."

"Did you hear me? Carolina? Colt? Possible shit beating?" Dean pressed.

"Yeah," Sam sighed. The younger man dropped his forehead to his knees and was still for a long moment, letting the burnt out emotions run their course.

Dean waited silently, praying that their father wasn't sending them on a wild goose chase. After a lifetime hunt of the same prey, he and Sam desperately needed some closure.

Finally, Sam raised his head and locked eyes with Dean, all traces of tears gone. "Shit beating?"

Dean nodded, a tired smile ghosting his lips.

"Can I have the first swing?"

"Absolutely."

**TBC**


	15. Like Father Like Son

Chapter 15: Like Father Like Son

Dean had always found the process of making ammunition to be strangely peaceful and this time was no different. He had cranked up the burner on Missouri's stove, set up his little ceramic crucible and waited, watching as the last of the Colt's precious rounds was reduced to a bubbling silver puddle. The knowledge that any spills or fumbles might bring their hunt to a screeching halt never factored into his quick, well-rehearsed movements.

It had been a week since John's departure. A week in which the boys slept, stuffed themselves on Missouri's cooking, and debated the ins and outs of the task that now lay before them. They weren't at all sure what awaited them in South Carolina, but they damn sure weren't going unprepared. A closer inspection of the envelope that contained the info on Charlie Elkins revealed that John had also left them the slug; instructions as to the use of the bullet being implied.

"Boy, what in blazes are you doing at my stove?"

_Busted. _He could hear Missouri's flats click across the linoleum as she entered the kitchen and he turned around lazily, leaning back against the closed oven door. "Bakin' cookies, you want some?"

She swatted him out of the way playfully. "Cookies go _in _the oven, not on top of it. Now what are you doing?" She leaned over the burner to peer down into the crucible.

"I never said they were gonna be good cookies," Dean grumbled, rubbing the arm that she had just hit. "That really hurt ya know."

"Dean," the psychic turned suddenly intense eyes to him. "What is this?" It was an authentic question this time, not her normal invite for banter. Her tone left no room for jokes.

"It's what's left of the bullet that Dad mentioned at dinner the other night."

"From the Colt?"

"Yep."

"Well what are you meltin' it down for?"

Dean took a moment to gather his patience before responding. "I'm going to mold it and turn it into a new bullet, or several. I need to run that by Sam first."

"Run what by me?" Sam asked as he stepped into the room, drawing both Dean and Missouri's attention. He was dressed in jeans and a black polo layered over a long-sleeved tee, his Carhartt jacket draped over one arm. The purpling around his right eye had all but vanished and the scars on his cheek were just pale reminders of the crash.

Subconsciously, Dean ran a hand down his own belly, fingers pausing over the ridges of staples. The metal prongs were still in place, but the flesh had begun to seal together and only a tenth of his previous pain lingered. He and Sam weren't exactly in ideal hunting shape, but it would have to do.

Missouri looked to each boy, and then excused herself silently. They both watched her leave.

"The bullet," Dean said, answering Sam at last and nodding toward the crucible.

"What about it?" the younger man asked.

Dean sighed. "Well in case you haven't noticed, it's all melted down."

"So…"

"What do you want to do with it?"

"Well, gee, Dean, I don't know," Sam shrugged dramatically and tapped at his chin as if lost in deep contemplation. "Wait, here's an idea, why don't we…oh I don't know…make another bullet?"

"No, ya think? Listen up smartass, I was trying to do the polite thing and get your opinion…but I guess I'll just go ahead and make the bullets like I planned."

"Wait," the hardness began to seep from Sam's features. "You said bull-_ets_, as in plural?"

Dean smiled smugly and folded his arms. "Uh-huh."

Sam frowned. "Dude, you've only got _one_ bull_et_, that does not equal plural bull_ets_."

"Chill, I've got it all worked out. I'll divvy it up; put just a drop or two in each mold and fill in the rest with wrought iron. Noboby'll ever know the difference," he said proudly.

Sam's eyes bulged in disbelief. "Uh, Dean, I'm pretty sure the demon will know when we shoot him and he _doesn't die_!"

Dean threw up his hands in frustration. "Well what would you have me do? Do you just want one more shot at this?"

"Dean, what if it's like…Kool-Aid or something and it's not as good if it's watered down?"

"Hey," Dean scowled darkly. "Give me a little more credit here."

"Will it work?"

"Sure."

"Dean!"

"Okay, I don't know, Sammy," Dean stared down at his socks and wiggled his toes against the floor. "I really don't know, dude." He picked his head up and fixed Sam's brown eyes with his own hazel ones. His brother looked more than a little apprehensive. "Truth is, I'm afraid this might really fuck things up, but I don't know what else to do. What I _do_ know is that I'm not gonna put us in the whole one-bullet-left situation again. That never seems to end well."

Sam nodded absently, chewing his lip and fiddling with the zipper of his jacket.

"It's your call," Dean added, drawing a disbelieving look from the younger man.

"What? Dean…" he started to protest, eyes going almost frantic.

"Like I said," Dean cut him off. "Your call. You're the one with the freaky visions and shit, so you tell me."

Sam closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, then let the breath rush through his nostrils and end in a disparaging snort. When his eyes opened, he nodded, mouth pressed in a firm line. "Alright then, split 'em."

-O-

**Two hours later…**

"Oh, I wish you boys would stay another week, you need more time to heal," Missouri's brow wrinkled in concern as she smoothed a crease from the front of Sam's shirt with motherly care.

Sam smiled and took her hand in his, squeezing gently. "We can't thank you enough for everything you've done, Missouri. But I know we've worn out our welcome."

"Oh no, of course not!" she insisted.

"Really?" Sam nodded toward the doorway to the kitchen where Dean was seated at the table.

As they paused, Dean's muffled rant became clearer. "…come the hell outta there, you sonovabitch! Come on, mother fu…"

"Well," she smiled. "I can't say I'll miss that mouth of his."

Sam returned her grin and leaned down as she opened her arms for a hug. "Thank you so much," he whispered, voice nearly catching. "I don't know what we would have done."

She pulled back from the embrace and patted his arm. "You would have found a way, just like you Winchesters always do. You three are the toughest white boys I ever met."

The remark was meant as a joke, but it touched him all the same. He chuckled as he turned toward the kitchen. "Dean, you ready?"

"Is the car loaded?" came the response.

Sam nodded as he stepped through the doorway. "Yep, the _truck_ is all packed up and ready to go."

Dean looked up frown the table and frowned. "Damn truck," he muttered before returning to the task at hand.

"What's the matter?" Sam asked, coming around the other side of the table.

"I can't get the last bullet out," said as he struggled to pry the mold apart. At his words, the mold suddenly gave way and the steel gray cylinder came popping out onto the table. It landed with a _clink_ and began rolling across the cracked, wood surface, picking up speed as it went.

Sam cupped his hand at the edge and neatly palmed the bullet before it could fall to the floor. "How many did there end up being?" he asked, holding the precious piece of metal up to the light.

Dean gave a single hollow chuckle. "Thirteen."

-O-

Saying that Dean was glad to hit the road was an understatement. It wasn't that he wanted to get away from Missouri, well maybe just a little, but rather that he longed for the hunt again. The only life he'd ever known lay on the highways of Middle America and his brief respite had him itching to return. The drive to Summerville had not been an unpleasant one; they'd allowed themselves two days for travel, stopping over at a motel for the night. Dean had refused to drive, insisting that it would be unfaithful to his precious Impala. Sam had tried his best to keep from rolling his eyes at that particular remark.

Dusk was rapidly approaching as the brothers rolled to a stop in front of 1462 Woodland Drive, dark fingers of purple stabbing through the magenta sky. The house was one in a street of many nearly identical villas; two- story grey stucco, black shingles and shutters, white trim work, neatly clipped hedges. The lot was barely an eighth of an acre and the house was all scrunched up next to those on either side. The grass was a faded green, there were minimal flowers, and one sickly, popsicle stick tree wilted up near the street, supported by wooden stakes and guide wires.

"Well this place is just _bursting_ with personality," Dean said sarcastically, giving the home an unappreciative snort.

"Tell me about it," Sam sighed, leaning across the cab to peer through the passenger window.

"Dude!" Dean tried to push the younger man aside. "Get your own freakin' window!"

"Wait," Sam slapped Dean's hand away and pointed up to the front of the house, eyes suddenly intent. "Do you see that?"

"What?" Dean turned sharp hazel eyes in the same direction as his brother and scanned the front of the Elkins' home. Everything seemed normal; windows intact, sprinklers ticking away, flag flapping lightly in the breeze, front door ajar…

"Oh shit," they both breathed in unison. It took about three seconds for them to unlock the doors and tumble out of the truck. Dean reached the bed first and levied himself up with the aid of the rear tire.

"What do you think it means?" Sam asked, accepting the sawed-off twelve gauge that Dean handed down from the toolbox.

"Could be nothing," Dean reasoned, checking the full clip in his .45 and sliding the weapon into his waistband. "Maybe they just forgot and left the door open."

"Dean, just because he doesn't believe in his father's crusade doesn't mean Charlie is oblivious to what goes on. No way Daniel Elkins' son leaves his front door wide-ass open."

Dean flipped his brother the Glock, tucked a flashlight and another shotgun under his own arm and slammed the toolbox closed. "I hope you're wrong, Sammy," he muttered, jumping down from the bed with a wince.

They made their way across the lawn as casually as any two armed, jacketed men could hope to be. If a neighbor happened to be looking out his window at that exact moment, their hopes of getting out of Summerville without a night in lock-up were slim to none.

"Cover me," Dean instructed, sidling into the alcove around the door. What little he could see through the partially opened door was dark and shadowy. He clicked on his flashlight and toed open the door, immediately sweeping the yellow beam beneath the muzzle of his .45 with police precision. Entering the front hall, the devastation become evident immediately.

The remnants of what had once been a rather ornate hall tree lay scattered in ruin across the foyer, the mirror smashed to millions of tiny glittering bits and the wood splintered beyond hope of repair. Water from a broken vase bled the colors from an oil print that had crashed to the floor with enough force to scuff the tile. Large and small scraps of fabric were snagged on the edges of broken picture frames.

"What the hell?" Sam asked over his brother's shoulder as he stepped into the house, eyes trailing across the destruction.

Dean shook his head, bewildered, and reached up to touch a dark smear on the wall. "I've got blood," he announced, withdrawing sticky, wet fingers.

Stepping carefully, they picked their way further down the hall, both noting that the destruction was laid in a path as though following a struggle. The dining and living rooms were untouched, but the kitchen had been completely wrecked. Copper pots and pans from an overhead rack littered the counter and floor. Multiple drawers were open, their collections of knives and utensils scattered everywhere, some of the sturdier pieces actually jammed into the cabinet faces. Two free-floating shelves above the small, two-person table had been pulled down; their pictures and knick-knacks lay in a wrecked heap below. It was a different setting, a different type of home, but the damage was startlingly similar to that at Daniel Elkins' cabin. Like father like son…wanted by the night.

Sam toed over one of the few frames that hadn't been completely demolished and found a young couple smiling up at him. The woman was pretty; brunette and petite with sparkling blue eyes. Her arms were wrapped around the waist of a tall, rugged, outdoorsy kind of guy; Charlie Elkins. "What happened here?" he mused, looking up from the picture to the room around him.

"Bad shit, man," Dean muttered. A dark scowl marred the elder Winchester's handsome features as he kicked through the debris, searching for any clues that might explain the disaster that lay before them. "Whoever, or whatever did this…" he trailed off and Sam whipped around curiously.

"What is it?" the younger man asked, joining Dean beside the breakfast bar.

Dean pointed to a red splotch on the light colored tile. "Footprints. _Bloody_ footprints."

Sure enough, the unmistakable traces of a small set of bare feet were streaked across the floor, leading away from the scene. A smudged arch, a couple of toes; the boys followed the prints down the hall and up a flight of narrow, carpeted stairs. Each stair blossomed with a fresh stain, leaving them to believe that whoever owned the prints had a cut on his foot, rather than a transferring stain.

"They go off to the right," Dean whispered as they reached the top of the stairs, guns drawn. Each hunter gripped their pistol of choice since their obviously corporeal prey wouldn't likely find rock salt to be lethal.

Sam cleared the hall and flanked his brother as they entered the room to the right of the stairs; the master bedroom. Everything seemed to be in array; the bed was made and dresser drawers closed neatly. The crimson prints tracked around the king size bed and ended in front of a pair of closed, slatted French doors.

"Closet," Sam mouthed, and Dean nodded.

They approached slowly and cautiously, walking up on the balls of their feet. When they neared the doors, Dean motioned with the muzzle of his gun and Sam moved into position; one hand taking a firm grip on the knob. The younger man waited, breath held against a pounding heart, and drummed his fingers against the butt of the Glock. Dean trained his flashlight and S&W on the door, paused, then gave a single, curt nod.

Sam twisted the knob, flung open the door, and leapt out of the firing line in one swift motion, bringing up his own weapon. A scream louder than any they'd ever heard pierced the quiet and Dean nearly fired with shock. But then his eyes registered the frantic, tear-stained face of a woman and he lowered his gun with shaking relief.

"Holy shit!" he gasped.

Sam recognized the woman almost immediately as the one from the picture downstairs; Mrs. Elkins. "It's okay, it's okay, we're not going to hurt you!" he assured quickly, pocketing his gun.

Mrs. Elkins screamed again, just as sharp as the first time, and she drew her knees up under her chin. Her entire body quivered, even her teeth chattered.

"It's okay, I promise," Sam knelt in front of her. "We're just trying to help."

"No!" she screamed, her sapphire eyes bulging in their sockets. "No!"

"Mrs. Elkins, we're friends," Sam tried to reassure, reaching a hand toward the distraught woman. "I'm Sam and this is my brother Dean. We just want to help…"

"Who did this to you? Are they still here?" Dean interrupted more gruffly than he'd intended, looming over Sam's shoulder.

She shrieked as Sam's outstretched hand neared her elbow and she wriggled backward in between the dangling row of pant legs, drawing quaking hands to cover her mouth.

"Dean, you're scaring her!" Sam elbowed his brother in the knee.

"I didn't do anything!" the elder protested. "You're the one who's touching her!"

"Fine." Sam reached up and parted the curtain of hanging clothes, this time taking care not to come in contact with Charlie's wife. "Mrs. Elkins," he said her name soothingly. "You can come on out, I promise we're not going to hurt you. In fact…you're father-in-law sent us, we're friends of his."

She buried her face in her knees and began rocking back and forth rapidly, mumbling something incoherent. The friend-of-the-family route obviously wasn't going to work.

"Mrs. Elkins…"

"Hush, Sam," Dean said forcefully, drawing his brother's attention. He twirled a finger in the air around his ear and rolled his eyes. "She's not all there, man."

"But Dean…"

"I said, _she'd not all there, man_." He wet his lips nervously and surveyed the room, taking in the neatness and order; the conflict had never touched the bedroom. "Something's not right here."

"No, ya think!" Sam exclaimed, wincing when his tone elicited a yelp from Mrs. Elkins.

"I'm serious," Dean scowled. "This isn't like Daniel's cabin; this isn't some haphazard vamp raid. Whoever did this was after something specific, _normal_ supernatural things don't leave behind a potential snack," he jerked his head toward the shivering bundle in the closet. "This is some crazy-ass shit right here."

Sam's brow furrowed beneath his bangs and he chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. "Okay, so let's say you're right."

"Yes, let's."

"Theories, Einstein?"

"I'm workin' on it," Dean said defensively.

"The eyes!"

Both brothers turned startled looks to the closet at Mrs. Elkins' sudden outburst. The deranged woman flung apart the clothes before her and came tumbling from the small enclosure, waving and pawing at the air.

"Eyes!" she repeated her eyes unnaturally wide and frantic as she lunged toward the still-crouching Sam. "Eyes!"

"Get clear!" Dean shouted, raising his .45 and training it on Mrs. Elkins.

"No, Dean, back off!" Sam protested even as he recoiled from the wailing female that had taken a death grip on the front of his jacket.

"Eyes…hurt…Charlie…the eyes!" she screamed, her mouth jerking in uncontrollable spasms.

"What eyes? What about Charlie?" Sam asked, taking a firm hold on her shoulders to try and control her tremors.

"Eyes!" She screeched again, tugging desperately at the stiff canvas duck jacket.

"What eyes?" Sam demanded, shaking her gently.

Her answer came in the form of a gurgle as her own eyes rolled skyward and she slumped against his chest, a shallow panted breath the only sign of life.

"What eyes?" Sam asked softly, his voice sounding dazed even to his own ears.

Dean sighed from behind him. "Like I said, crazy-ass shit, man."

**TBC**


	16. Ramble On

**AN: First, I would like to apologize to all of my wonderful readers because this is the last chapter of this fic and I haven't warned you in advance. But, don't worry, because secondly, I will start posting the sequel to this fic, _Night Prowler_, within the next week. I want to thank each every reader who took the time to review, it means the world to me! I hope you enjoy the conclusion and look for my reappearance soon.**

**Thx again, Uzi**

Chapter 16: Ramble On

"How is she, doctor?" Sam asked of the relatively young man who stood beside him outside of room 108. "Any change?"

Dr. Willis frowned, his blonde mustache wilting as he nodded toward the woman who was seated on the room's single bed. "I hate to tell you this, kid, but we don't have a clue what's wrong with your sister."

Sam sighed, watching as Susan Elkins pulled the stiff, hospital blanket up around her shoulders and over head and rocked back and forth anxiously. "Damn," he muttered. "I was hoping you'd tell me she was back to normal."

"Normal?" Dr. Willis arched his brows in mild amusement. "I don't know how Susan acts normally, but I'm pretty sure this isn't it." He afforded Sam a sheepish smile. "Sorry, I don't mean to be callous, but when you work in a psych ward…"

"You get used to it," Sam finished with a small smile of his own. "I understand."

On the other side of the plate glass window Susan had begun to sing quietly, a slurred and unrecognizable melody.

Dr. Willis lifted his clipboard and flipped through the attached pages. "It truly is a medical mystery," he slipped into professional physician mode. "We've run every kind of test imaginable. Her CAT scan was clean, as were her X-rays. The tox-screen didn't turn up any drugs or foreign agents, her dopamine levels are normal. No tumors, clots, or aneurisms…basically, there's nothing physically wrong with Susan."

Sam chewed his lip thoughtfully, taking in the information. "So…any theories as to why she's…" he let the sentence hang, not wanting to use the word 'crazy'.

The young doctor shrugged. "Her state fluctuates. Most of the time she's like this; quiet but disturbed. Then, without warning, she goes into a fairly severe panic attack; screaming, thrashing, the works."

"Have you ever seen this sort of thing before?"

"Once, when I was still an intern here. There was a rape victim, a teenage girl, who watched the perp kill both her parents before he assaulted her. Her brain wasn't damaged, but she was mentally incapacitated. She hallucinated that the nurses were her rapist…it got ugly to say the least."

"Well, whatever happened at that house…," Sam shook his head, eyes going hard. "We still don't know where her husband is."

"I'm sorry, I'm sure it's been traumatic for the entire family."

"Yeah," Sam nodded, gave Susan one last pitying glance and turned to leave. "Thanks for everything, Dr. Willis. Let me know if she snaps out of it."

The other man smiled sadly. "Sure thing, kid. Just…don't get your hopes up."

"Don't worry, I won't."

-O-

"Come on, baby…work for Daddy," Dean tapped hopefully at the front of his homemade EMF meter.

The converted walkman's screen stared up at him blankly, its needle resting at zero.

"Aw, you're no fun," he sighed, letting the device drop along with his hand down to his side. He'd spent the better part of the morning poking around Charlie Elkins' villa; that was of course after the local authorities had completed their sweep of the place and taped off all entrances and exits. Apparently, police thought that yellow crime tape impenetrable.

But so far Dean had found nothing of any use. He'd learned that Charlie and his wife Susan paid all their bills on time, did well on their tax returns, spent an extra ten bucks each month on the deluxe DirecTV package, and hadn't had any significant contact with Daniel Elkins in the past four years. The deceased hunter's name didn't so much as appear in their address book. Other than an overly large carton of table salt in the pantry, the house didn't contain a single item that would prove useful in the event of a supernatural attack.

_God, is this the way Sam would live if he settled down?_ He wondered idly as he flipped through a stack of blood-spattered mail on the counter. _In total denial? _He sure as hell hoped not, surely his brother could never forget the evil that lurked just beyond the reaches of his nightlight. He gave himself a mental shake and moved on.

A complete sweep of the downstairs turned up nothing. The crime scene unit had hauled off some of the larger, more suspicious pieces of furniture, leaving behind a scattering of broken glass and splintered wood. Without a way of testing the blood smears, Dean had no way of knowing whether it belonged to the still missing Charlie, his wife, or the attacker. Not to mention the EMF wasn't picking up anything abnormal that would indicate a ghost or demon.

Dean made one last scan, absently whistling the Rolling Stones' _Satisfaction_, and his eyes landed on the nook between the pantry and back door that led to the stairs. He gave a little shrug and maneuvered his way through the debris in that general direction. His foot had just settled on the first step when the EMF buzzed to life in his hand.

"Bingo," he muttered grimly, raising the device to find two of its red lights blazing. He ascended the stairs quickly, the EMF's growl building up to a steady whine, its needle flopping around like a windshield wiper.

Following Susan Elkins' bloody footprints, he entered the master bedroom. It was just as tidy as before, save for the open closet doors and the clothes that Susan had knocked to the ground in her hysterical fit. The EMF shrieked, its lights burning at their brightest.

Dean nodded and afforded the room one last glance. "Thanks, doll," he told the screaming EMF. "That's all I needed to know."

-O-

Dean was already in the reception area when Sam pushed his way through the double doors. The older man was sprawled casually across two of the armless plastic chairs, earning unseen dirty looks from the rest of the waiting populace. He wasn't even flirting with the twenty something blonde seated across from him, which seemed odd to Sam, and was instead staring intently at the TV mounted above the reception desk.

"Dude," Sam drew up next to his brother and buckled his legs so that his knees bumped the other man's legs. "Move over."

"Dude, don't push me!" Dean grumbled, giving Sam a well-measured thump as he slid over into a single chair.

"Whatever," Sam sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to dampen the headache that had reared its ugly head the moment he'd stepped through the automated glass doors. "I don't _ever_ want to see the inside of a hospital again."

"Ditto. So, what'd the doc say?"

Sam shot a cautious glance around the room to ensure that no one was paying them any undue attention. "There's nothing physically wrong with her," he said in a hushed tone.

"So except for the fact that she's nutty as hell…"

"Dean!"

"I'm telling ya, lights are on but nobody's home, Sammy."

"Dean!"

"Fine," Dean sighed and gave an exaggerated eye roll. "She's _mentally challenged_ at the moment. Is that all he said?"

Sam frowned, but decided that now was not the time for an argument about political correctness. "He said he'd seen this sort of thing before in a rape victim who was seriously traumatized. My guess," he dropped his voice even lower. "…Is that whoever took Charlie quite literally almost scared her to death."

"Not 'who', Sam, but 'what'."

"You found something at the house then?"

"Naw, nothing downstairs at the crime scene," Dean frowned. "But the EMF went bonkers in the master bedroom."

"Bonkers?"

"Completely ape-shit. I'm talkin' Susan Elkins crazy. But the weird thing is no ozone or sulfur."

Sam checked for eavesdroppers again. "So that means no spirits or demons. What does that leave?"

Dean shrugged. "Something that likes screwing around with electro-magnetic fields. Whatever it is, it's not anything we've ever faced before." He rose, slipping on his leather jacket, hands automatically reaching to pop the collar up in the back. "C'mon, let's move this party outside."

Sam followed, relieved to escape the hospital. He squinted as they exited, the September sun still strong enough to make his eyes water, and he hurried to catch up to his brother. "Well…what's the plan?" he asked a bit hesitantly as he came up alongside Dean.

The older man arched a single brow amusedly. "Always with the plan stuff, Sam," he cracked a grin when his remark drew its desired puzzling effect. "Chill, dude, I've got it all worked out. It's up here," he tapped his temple with a knuckle. "Been using my upstairs brain for once."

"Okay, I'll bite," Sam resigned, stuffing his hands in his jeans pockets as they wound their way through the parking lot.

"Well," Dean began proudly. "While you were visiting our 'sister', I stumbled across an intriguing news report."

"You mean that girl wouldn't talk to you so you ended up watching TV instead."

Dean frowned, lower lip puffing into a pout. "You always ruin my fun," he muttered, but recovered quickly. "Anyway, this reporter chick was doing some story about Temple, Georgia and the strange things that have been going on for the past week or so," he paused to unlock the Silverado with its remote and watched the interior lights flicker to life in response. "Four teenage girls have awakened their parents screaming in the middle of the night. The next morning, they're all drooling, crying, complete zombies."

"Just like Susan Elkins," Sam said incredulously.

Dean nodded and smirked. "It gets better. All of the parents reported that their daughters were found by their open bedroom windows, screaming about eyes."

"Eyes?" Sam's own brown orbs widened in shock. "Holy shit! That's what Susan…holy shit!"

"I know," Dean folded his arms and leaned up against the cab of the truck. "So back to my amazing plan. I figure Elkins is gone, long gone, and whatever attacked him and his wife is somehow connected with what's going on in Temple."

Sam nodded. "Sounds like it."

"I also figure we won't hear from Dad for a while," he continued. "All we have to go on is a dead end, a half-ass lead, and instinct." He leaned his head back and regarded Sam, sizing the younger man up. "Wha'cha say, kiddo? You up for a hunt?"

Sam turned away, raking his teeth across his lip. After everything, all the hell his family had been put through, in the end it always came back to yet another hunt. It was a vicious circle. Fortunately, he was feeling just vicious enough himself to put it all to an end. When he turned back to Dean, he was smirking, his face twisted into an attempt at his brother's favorite expression. "So, you think Charlie Elkins is in Georgia?"

Dean's eyes glittered diabolically. "Honestly, man, does it matter?"

"Honestly…" Sam's smirk became even more Dean-like. "No."

"Hell yeah!" Dean chuckled, yanking open the driver's side door.

"Wait, you're driving?" Sam grinned in disbelief. "Whatever happened to you hating this thing?"

Dean was already settling himself in the cab. "Shut up, Sam. This is a man's truck, it's only fitting that I drive." He cranked the ignition and the black monster roared to life.

Sam grinned inwardly as he settled into the roomy passenger seat and watched his brother expertly navigate the large vehicle out of the narrow space. He had no idea what awaited them in Georgia, whether it be good or bad, and he most certainly had no idea where their father was. But, for the moment, it didn't really seem to matter. He had his brother, and they had their weapons, a decidedly un-crashed mode of transportation, and they had the Colt. For the moment, they didn't have a place of departure or a destination, they were simply floating in between and for once, the unknown was actually comforting.

Dean flipped on the radio and Creedence Clearwater Revival's _Bad Moon Rising_ flooded the speakers with its unmistakable twang.

Sam gulped. "Uh, Dean? Do you mind if I change this?"

The older man frowned. "No, go ahead. For some reason, I kinda think I hate this song."

"Me too." With a little sigh of relief, Sam flipped the radio off and they rode in silence. Silent save for the rumble of the engine, Dean's absent humming, and his baby brother's occasional sigh of contentment. Somehow, they both knew it wouldn't last…

**The End**


End file.
